Читать книгу Vortex (Sten #7) - Allan Cole - Страница 9

CHAPTER TWO

“AN APERITIF, M’LORD?” a voice purred in Sten’s ear. Sten brought himself back to reality, realized he’d been preening like an Earth peacock in front of the oak-framed mirror on the wall, and covered a blush.

The owner of the voice was female, black haired, invitingly constructed and costumed, and was holding a tray of fluted glasses. The flutes contained a black, slightly bubbling liquid. “Black Velvet,” she said. Indeed you are, Sten thought. But he said nothing, merely lifted an inquiring eyebrow.

“A combination of two Old Earth spirits,” she continued. “Earth champagne — Taittinger Blanc de Blancs — and a rare brewed stout from the island of Eire. Guinness, it is named.”

She paused and smiled — a most personal smile. “You should enjoy your stay here on Prime, Sr. Ambassador Sten. As a member of the household staff, it would be my disappointment were you to leave . . . dissatisfied.”

Sten took one glass, sipped, and said his thanks. The woman waited, found nothing further, smiled once more — a more formal smile — and passed on.

You are growing old, Sten thought. Once upon a time you would have admired, asked, and gotten either a turndown or an acceptance for later. Then you would have downed six glasses to stagger you through this idiotic ceremony. But you are now an adult. You do not get drunk because you think parades are foolishness. Nor do you leap for the first beautiful woman who presents herself.

Besides . . . that smiling servitor was certainly an Intelligence — Mercury Corps — operative who quite possibly outranked Admiral (Inactive-Reserve) Sten (NI).

Finally, at the moment he was not in the mood for a fling. Why not? While part of his brain puzzled, he tasted. Odd combination. He had tasted fermented and augmented effervescent grape juice before, although it had seldom been this dry. The other liquid — Guinness? — added a sharp, solid bash to the taste, not unlike a pugil stick to the head. Before he left Prime he would drink more of these, he resolved.

Sten moved back until his shoulders touched the wall — old habits as an Imperial assassin died hard — and looked about the monstrous chamber.

Arundel Castle rose triumphant over its own ruins. Built as the Eternal Emperor’s grandiose living quarters on the Imperial world of Prime, it had been destroyed by a tacnuke as part of the Tahn’s unique way of beginning a war sans preliminaries. During the ensuing Empire-wide battle, Arundel had remained in symbolic ruins, the Eternal Emperor headquartered in the vast warren under the desolation.

When the Emperor had been assassinated, Arundel had been left as a memorial by his killers. It had been rebuilt upon the Emperor’s return — even more lofty and looming than before.

Sten was in one of the castle’s antechambers. A waiting room. A waiting room that could have served handily as a hangar for a fleet destroyer.

The room was packed with fat cats, military and civilian, humanoid and otherwise. Sten glanced once more in the mirror and winced. “Fat cats” was slightly too apt a phrase. Now that you have finished the Emperor’s latest bidding, he thought, you need to get back in shape. That sash you were admiring but a minute before with all its decorations does accentuate a bit of a paunch, does it not? And the wingtip collar serves to give you another chin. Don’t you hope it’s the collar?

The hell with you, Sten told his backbrain. I am happy at the moment. Happy with me, happy with the world, happy with where I am.

He looked yet a third time in the mirror, returning to the train of thought interrupted by the servitor. Damn. I am still not used to seeing myself in diplomatic drag. Instead of some kind of uniform, or at least a disguise. This outfit, this archaic shirt, coat with a forked tail that stretches nearly to my ankles, these pants that reach down to shiny low-top boots . . . this is still strange.

He wondered what would happen if the Sten who was — that poor clottin’ orphan from that slave company world who was lucky and quick with a knife — looked into that mirror and it became that fictional favorite, a timescreen? What would that young Sten think as he peered into it, knowing he was looking at himself in years to come?

Years? Many more than he’d like to total.

What an odd wonderment. Especially here. Waiting on the pleasure of the Eternal Emperor, to be congratulated and awarded for service at the highest level.

Yes. What would that younger Sten think? Or say?

Sten grinned. Probably — other than ‘Why the clot didn’t you follow up with Black Velvet?’ — a grunt of relief. So. We’re clottin’ alive. Never thought we’d make it. Without thinking, his right hand moved over and touched the rich silk of his coat.

Under that — and under his diamond-studded shirtsleeve — was still the knife. Surgically hidden in his arm. Sten had built it — had grown it and then “machined” it on a biomill — as a slave laborer on Vulcan. It had been his first possession. The knife was a tiny, double-edged dart, contoured to fit no other hand but his. Needle-pointed, it could cut an Earth diamond in half with only blade pressure. It may have been the most deadly knife that man, with his infinite fascination with destruction, had ever built. It was kept in place by a surgically rerouted muscle.

But it had been more than a year, no, almost two years since it had been drawn in anger. Four wonderful years of peace, after a lifetime at war. Peace . . . and a growing sense in Sten that he was finally doing the task he was suited for. Something that did not involve —

“How correct,” a voice said in a flat, lethal monotone. “You always did remind me a bit of a pimp. I see you have become one. Or at least dress like one.”

Sten growled back to reality, arm dropping, fingers curling, the knife reflexing down into its killing slot; stepping away from the wall, left foot coming back, poised on toe, weight centered, slight crouch . . .

Clotting Mason.

Correction. Clotting Fleet Admiral Rohber Mason. In full dress whites, his chest a blaze of decorations, all of them well earned and probably no more than one-third of the hero buttons Mason deserved. He had never bothered to get that livid scar that ripped across his face removed. Sten figured he probably felt it added to his charm.

“Admiral,” Sten said. “How is the baby-slaughtering trade?”

“It goes well,” Mason retorted. “Once you learn to shorten your lead and range, it’s simple.”

Mason and Sten hated each other for no known reason. Mason had been one of Sten’s instructors back during flight school and had done his best to make sure Sten never graduated. Mason was considered by his students as an unmitigated bastard. The students were correct. And, unlike the livies, after graduation Mason’s heart of stone was not revealed as a pose. Under the granite was ten-point steel.

During the Tahn war Mason had risen to admiral. He had many qualities: He was brilliant. A tyrant. A master strategist. A killer. A brutal disciplinarian. A leader who backed his subordinates to the grave and beyond. For instance, when he was unable to find just cause to wash Sten out of flight school, he graduated him with the highest marks. Mason was possibly the best tac pilot in the Imperial Forces.

Second best, Sten’s pilot-ego growled.

Fiercely loyal to the Emperor, he had survived the privy council’s purges through luck and meanness. Now he was no doubt carrying out Imperial orders as he had in the past — efficiently and savagely. Yes, Sten thought, there had been peace. But only compared to the nightmare of the Tahn war. Beings still died.

“I heard you’d become the Emperor’s messenger boy,” Mason said. “Never could understand how a real being could stand living in a world where everything’s gray and there’s no truth.”

“I’ve gotten to like the color,” Sten said. “It doesn’t stain the hands as much as red. And it washes off.”

A booming voice broke the mutual glower. “Gentlebeings, your attention, please.” The buzz of polite diplomatic chatter died away.

“I am Grand Chamberlain Bleick.” The speaker was a ridiculously costumed, undersized being, speaking in the loudest smarmy twitter Sten had ever heard. Of course. He had a throat mike and porta boomer.

“We want to ensure that all of you noble ones receive the correct recognition, and that this ceremony proceeds as planned. Therefore, we must adhere to the following rules. The awards will be presented in descending order of merit. A subordinate will announce each category.

“When your award is called, you will form a single line here, at the entrance. When the annunciator” — Bleick indicated a being in red flummoxry — “announces your name, you will enter the main chamber. You will walk directly forward approximately seventeen steps, where you will see a line graven on the floor.

“The Emperor will be standing on the far side of that line.

“If you are the only recipient of an award, stop directly in front of the Eternal Emperor. If you are one of a group, proceed directly to the line and stop next to the nearest being on your left.

“Please stand at attention.

“An Imperial aide will read the citation for your award. A second aide will physically give you the award, either on a sash or she will pin it directly to your uniform. If there is an error, please try to cover any pained reaction. The ceremonies are, of course, being taped for subsequent broadcast to your home worlds.

“Additional copies, I might add, may be secured through my office at a reasonable fee.

“There are no scheduled recipients for any of the Imperial Privy Household Orders. The next ranking are hereditary awards: dukedoms, baronetcies, and the like. Those who are receiving one of those . . .”

“Hereditary,” Sten breathed in surprise. His lips did not move, nor did his voice reach beyond Mason’s ears. It was a talent learned in military formations and prisons.

Mason, too, had the talent: “The Eternal Emperor has seen fit to find many new and unique patterns to reward those who serve him well.” His voice was quite devoid of irony.

“But-”

“Not only does it please the red-tape bastards,” Mason said, “but their bureaucratic bosses, as well.”

The disapproval both men felt never showed on either’s face. But strong sentiments did materialize a few meters away.

The man was huge and very white — from his flowing mane to his sweeping muttonchop whiskers and formal court dress. He also looked to be slightly drunk.

“Right lot of mad idiots,” he said in a voice that rolled like thunder. “Clottin’ titles make a yearlin’ think he’s automatic blood stock. Give unproven whelps ideas, that does! First time I heard of such drakh!

“By haveen, th’ Emp’s slippin’, allowin’ all this formal dancin’ by this crew of scrotumless ijiots! B’dam’ if I’ll take part in any such monkey dancin’. Tell th’ Emp, if he wants —”

Whatever Whiskers was about to suggest for the Emperor was swiftly broken off as four very, very large humans slid out of nowhere and formed a mini-cordon around the man.

Sten heard more protests, but most smoothly the man was brought under control and guided — he was too large to be frogmarched — out a nearby exit.

The four men were wearing a new, police-type gray uniform that Sten could not recollect having seen around Prime or the palace before. He saw one of their shoulder tabs, a round black and gold patch with a gold I, and the letter S scrolled around it.

“Who were the eighty-sixers?” he wondered in that monotone to Mason.

“New security element. Internal Security. The limit of my knowledge or curiosity.”

“Who are they organized under? Mercury? Mantis?” Sten’s natural curiosity sprang from his former — at least officially — membership in both organizations.

“I say again my last . . .” Mason’s voice was louder, frostier. “Goons, Gestapo’s, and guessers have never been my province.”

Sten found it polite to follow the ebb as awardees formed up, walked through the door, and vanished.

Hereditary orders . . . Meritorious orders . . . Decorations (military) . . . Decorations (civil) . . .

Sten stopped in front of the chamberlain, who consulted his list. “Sr. Plenipotentiary Sten, you will be the only being honored with this award today. You may enter.”

Sten walked toward the high gaping doors, and two beings in those red suits — and, Sten thought, some kind of whitish artificial hair — opened the doors.

A voice blared: “The Most Honorable Sten . . . of Smallbridge.”

The yawning Award Chamber was now filled with those who had already gone. Sten smoothed forward, at that slightly slower-than-normal pacing every diplomat learns that shows best on the livies. He formed a dignified expression on his face.

Most Honorable, he thought. Very interesting. As I recall, I was only Very Honorable the last time I was at court. Does Most Honorable give me a bigger paycheck?

“Ambassador Plenipotentiary Sten fulfilled the highest standards of the Imperial Service, at considerable risk to his own personal safety, in a recent mission to mediate between the Thorvaldians and the inhabitants of Markel Bat. Not only was peace preserved, but a new era of tranquility was brought to the cluster. He is to be honored by being named to a new ranking, A Companion of the Emperor.”

Which meant, Sten thought, whatever the Eternal Emperor wanted it to. Which was anything except an Imperial Privy Household Order — whatever they were. At least those obnoxious clots hadn’t actually gotten around to killing each other. Nor had he found it necessary to kill any of them, tempting as it had been at times.

None of these thoughts appeared on Sten’s face. Nor did his expression change as he walked toward that line, his eyes sweeping the huge chamber.

Up there . . . the iris in the chandelier . . . a tracking gun turret. That huge portrait — a one-way screen with a riot squad behind it, most likely. There, and there. At belt level. To either side of that line . . . hidden laser projectors.

On each side of the Awards Chamber’s doors were paired Gurkkhas. Quiet, small, brown men, faces blank, in dress uniform, their slouch hats’ chin straps held just below their lower lips. And, holstered on one hip, each had a miniwillygun. On the other hip the lethal, slashing kukris that helped make the Gurkkha the most feared and respected soldier in the Empire. Plus there were about ten more of those gray-clad Internal Security types scattered through the room.

So? Wouldn’t you put on a little bit more security if some clot had gone and killed you a few years earlier?

A man stood alone just beyond that line. The Eternal Emperor.

Dark hair. Blue eyes. Well muscled. He looked to be, at the oldest, in his mid-thirties. No, Sten corrected, his eyes made him out to be a bit older.

But certainly not old enough to be what he was — the man who for three millenniums had single-handedly built this Empire, the Empire that stretched beyond any beings’ visualizations, the Empire that had almost been destroyed and now was being reassembled.

Sten came to rigid attention. The Emperor looked his personal envoy up and down, then nodded in formal approval.

The two Imperial aides — the one who had recited the citation, and the other, who was holding some kind of medal in an open, velvet case — stepped forward.

Then the Emperor broke tradition. He turned to the aide and took the award from its case.

He stepped close, looping the decoration over Sten’s neck. “Forty-five minutes,” the Eternal Emperor monotoned, in a prison whisper just as skilled as Sten’s. “Backstairs . . . my chambers . . . we need a drink.”