Vortex (23 page)

"I want the whole station on red alert," Sten told Kilgour. "Notify the kitchen to keep the caff coming. And tell housekeeping to haul in some cots. Until further notice, we all work until we drop.''

Alex hustled off to kick the staff into overdrive. Sten turned back to the monitors. His eyes were already red-rimmed and scratchy. He felt Cind's soft hand touch the back of his neck.

She didn't say a word. But the light pressure gave him strength. Sten buckled down to a decidedly ugly task.

As the hours passed, tragedy mounted on tragedy.

A Suzdal militia, hatred stoked white hot by rumor, caught a Bogazi neighborhood napping. They torched it. Then they stood back and slaughtered the frightened Bogazi as they poured out of their hutches.

Revenge came almost immediately. As three Suzdal adults shepherded twenty or more cubs from their homes to a feeding hall, a group of Bogazi burst out of hiding. The Suzdal adults were dead in moments. Then the cubs. One Bogazi lifted a small cub high in the air. She split it with her beak, then swallowed it whole.

"Grandmother was correct," she chortled to her friends. "Suzdal good for nothing. Except eat."

The incident was sure to kick more fuel on the fire. The Suzdal were among the most protective parents in the Empire, genetically predisposed to slaughter anything threatening their young.

More incident reports flooded in.

That evening a small Tork militia unit attacked a Jochi marketplace. But the Jochians were ready. Troops leapt out to confront the Torks, who howled in surprised terror, turned, and fled. The Jochians followed. No sooner had they broken ranks, however, than a much larger Tork force burst onto the scene, striking from the rear. Two hundred plus died at the market. Most of them civilians.

On and on it went. Rurik was one enormous blood feud. Sten could barely keep up with the events. Numbly, he kept filing the reports, putting in calls to Iskra, and getting no answer. He had similar luck with the Eternal Emperor. His boss was indisposed. Sten was mildly surprised. He had never known the Emperor to be sick.

The following day, Sten stared bleary-eyed at the monitor screen as—marvel of all marvels—a
peaceful
group of citizens marched on Pooshkan. It was a mixed crowd, equally composed of the four races of the Altaics. They were carrying wreaths to lay at the site in memory of the slain students.

The group carried large, hand-lettered banners pleading for a return to peace and order in the Altaics. Some of the banners even had nice things to say about Iskra.

Sten was not surprised at what happened next. He chopped the volume and turned away from the screen as soldiers guarding the site opened fire. He looked at Cind. She stood soldier straight, jawline set firm. But her eyes were smudged dark. She gave an involuntary shudder as they both dimly heard screams of terror coming from the university.

Her mouth opened, as if she were about to speak. Then it closed again, with a sharp snap.

She wants me to make it stop, he thought. But she knows there's nothing I can do.

Sten had never felt so low. So unheroic. Not that he believed in such things. And if there were any fantasies of that sort in Cind, they had been thoroughly ground out in the course of the last few hours.

He heard Freston call his name. Sten turned.

"It's Dr. Iskra, sir," the com officer said. "He wonders if it would be convenient to meet?"

Sten went loaded for
Ursus horribilis
. In fact, forget the grizzly. Packed in a blunderbuss, his diplomatic note to Iskra would peel the hide of
Ursus articis
, as well.

Although he didn't directly charge Iskra with ordering the massacre at Pooshkan, he did some heavy denting around the edges. He also lumped in the attack on the wreath-layers, as well as the unauthorized use of Imperial troops on civilian populations.

The wadding he had tamped the charge with was a clear threat that he would recommend that the Emperor rethink his support of Iskra.

Unfortunately, Sten knew he was creeping out on two-mil-thick ice. The importance of the Altaic Cluster was such that the three cardinal rules of diplomacy absolutely applied. A: Check with the boss first. B: Check with the boss first. And, most important of all… C: Check with the boss first.

Still, although he was hamstrung by his failure to reach the Emperor, Sten tromped into his meeting determined to carry off his bluff.

Iskra leapt to his feet as soon as Sten entered the room. "Sr. Ambassador,'' he said, " I protest your failure to support my government!"

Sten buried an unprofessional gape. He buttoned his lip. Raised an eyebrow. Chilly.

"Furthermore, I am going to ask the Emperor that you be withdrawn from service in the Altaics."

"How kind of you to tell me in person," Sten said dryly. "I suppose your request—"

"Demand, sir. Not request."

"Demand, then. Although I suggest you eliminate that word from your vocabulary when you address the Emperor. Back to my question. Does this… demand… have anything to do with the chaos raging outside your doors? Or is it just you don't like the cut of my formal wear?"

"I blame you for the agony my poor people are experiencing, yes. Can you deny you and your… staff… have shown a definite lack of enthusiasm in my appointment?"

"I can. Easily. Enthusiasm is for amateurs. My professional duty is to support you. But—and this is a serious
but
, sir—my mission is to restore order to the Altaic Cluster. A mission, I must add, that is sadly in danger—if not doomed as we speak. And you, sir, must take full responsibility for this. As I so intend to inform the Emperor."

"Then I was right," Iskra hissed. "You do oppose me."

"After what happened at Pooshkan, you expect plaudits? A military band to trumpet your accomplishments?"

"You blame that—abominable action on me? Me!" Iskra made his best face of outrage. Sten would have laughed if the dispute had not been over blood.

"I'll have you know I'm sickened over the incident. I've ordered a complete investigation. Headed by a man whose reputation is above reproach: General Douw."

Ho-ho, Sten thought. So that's the way of the land, is it? Douw had been seduced into Iskra's sphere.

"I'll inform the Emperor," Sten said. "He'll be… interested. Which is not the word I'd use, doctor, to describe his reaction to the mess you've stepped in."

"Bah! A stronger hand is all they need. These are my people, Sr. Ambassador. You don't understand them. Blood feuds are an integral part of our history. It's a fact of our nature, and always bubbling under the surface. This is why, when your support of me is so lackluster, it only takes a small incident—such as the tragedy at Pooshkan—to threaten chaos."

"Chaos is what you've got all right," Sten said. "What do you propose to do about it?''

"That is
my
concern," Iskra snapped. "The private business of this cluster. Remember that."

"I'll do my best," Sten said.

He thought about the note in his pocket, the one tearing Iskra a new defecating orifice. If he delivered it as planned, it wouldn't make his future relations with Iskra any easier.

He thought about the young people dying at the barricades of Pooshkan. Clot future relations. Sten determined at that moment to rid himself of this man. He would gather every molecule of evidence. Build a stone bucket. So when he did speak to the Emperor, he would have proof enough to hammer Iskra out of the Altaics.

Besides, the man had already declared himself an enemy. At this point, most diplomatic rule books suggested a body blow-to the gut.

Sten pulled out the note and gave it to Iskra. "A little bedtime reading," he said. "Now, if you'll excuse me…" He exited the room, leaving Iskra gobbling after him.

As soon as he was gone, Venloe stalked in.

"That was unnecessary," he snapped. "You've just made yourself a very serious enemy.''

"Him? Sten is a mere functionary."

"Another mistake, doctor. Believe me, he's no functionary." With a chill, Venloe remembered his encounter with Sten and Mahoney. He was alive this moment only because they had needed him. "He was also right about the university," Venloe said.

"It was necessary," Iskra said. "As I told that fool of an ambassador, my people need a hard hand to rule them. It's all they understand. The incident at the university gave me a perfect excuse to use that hard hand. My name will be blessed for generations when this is over. Believe me. I know my place in history."

He peered at Venloe with a slight sneer on his lips. "You surprise me. I didn't think you'd be so squeamish over a little blood spilled for good purpose. Strange how you think you know a being."

Venloe just grunted noncommittally. The thought crossed his mind that if his assignment were of the usual nature, just how easy it would be to kill Iskra. Right now. Without raising a sweat or leaving a sign of foul play.

"I guess you don't," he said.

Iskra stared at him, trying to engage him in a childish battle of stare-down. Venloe's fingers itched to put them both out. Instead, he lowered his gaze.

"Good," Iskra muttered. "Now, I have some things I need. Desperately. I want to go over these requests thoroughly. So the Emperor will understand my requirements."

He began detailing a massive shopping list that Venloe was sure would not be looked at kindly by the Eternal Emperor.

"I'm all ears," Venloe said.

Sten leaned back in the seat of the gravcar. A heavy rainstorm sheeted the windows.

He was damned if he knew how to proceed next. Iskra was one of those beings that all diplomats met at least once in their careers, but were never the wiser afterward.

How did one deal with a ruler bent on his own ruin? The easy solution would be to just walk away. Unfortunately that was almost never a logical alternative.

Difficulty number one: In situations such as this, there is almost never an obvious successor. If the ruler is ruined, so is the kingdom. Which might be just ducky for all parties outside the kingdom, except for:

Difficulty number two: Suicidal rulers are always propped up by outsiders, whose own fate rests on the well-being of the threatened kingdom. In other words, nature is not allowed to take its course. If lightning strikes moral dry brush, many nationalities rush in with a fire brigade.

Sten realized that he was getting a major lesson through Iskra. The Altaics, he realized, had been doomed to their present unpleasantness the moment the first Jochians arrived in the cluster, clutching the Emperor's charter.

The charter—a fancy word for a business relationship between the Jochians and the Emperor—made them special, favored above all others. Their right to rule became as God-given as any ancient monarch. The charter eventually created the Khaqans, who forced themselves on an unwilling populace.

Without the external support of the Emperor, the beings of the Altaics would have been forced to find some other solution. There would have been bloodshed, but eventually the Jochians, the Torks, the Suzdal, and the Bogazi would have hammered out some kind of a consensus.

When he took the assignment, Sten had envisioned working out a situation that would have led to such a consensus government. He had hoped at least to build a scaffold others could stand on to hammer up a building.

Instead… Instead, Sten had clottin' Iskra to deal with. What kind of drakh was in his boss's mind?

Sten pulled himself back from irritation. No good to beat up on the boss's decisions. The Emperor might be eternal, but he had never claimed to be perfect. If Sten wanted him to choose a wiser course, Sten would have to help.

The driver signaled. They were approaching the Suzdal embassy, Sten's first stop. It was the first step in his plan to build an outside consensus.

As he looked out the window, one third of that plan went into the crapper.

The Suzdal embassy was empty. Some young Tork ruffians were combing through piles of hastily abandoned personal articles.

Sten slid out of the gravcar. The young beings spotted him and tensed, ready to flee. Sten waved away his security force, which had quickly piled out of its own vehicles. He walked casually up to the kids.

"Good pickings?" he asked the taller one, guessing that size might have something to do with leadership.

"Whotsit to ya?" the smallest of the Torks snarled. So much for guessing. This was not one of Sten's better days.

"Better question," Sten said. "What's it to you?"

He fished out some credits and flashed them before glittering little eyes. The little Tork snatched. Sten yanked his hand back.

He nodded, indicating the embassy. "Where'd they go?"

"Clottin' home is where they went. Whaddya think?" The kid glared at the money, lips compressed. Sten crossed the young Tork's palm with a few credits.

"Tell me more," Sten said. "Start with when they left."

"Three, four hours ago," the kid said. "We was playin' down the street, when all of a sudden there's this big clottin' bust-up. Suzdal yappin' and yippin' way they do. Gravlighters and Suzdal soldiers all over. 'Fore we knew it, they had the whole place packed up and they was gone."

Sten fed the kitty with a few more credits. "Anybody after them?"

"Nope. And nobody showed up later, either. Suzdal left on their ownsome all right. And they weren't talkin' scared, neither."

"What
were
they talking about?" Sten asked, handing over more filthy lucre.

"Killin' Bogazi, whoddya think?" The young Tork was clearly astonished at Sten's woeful ignorance. "We snuck in close, see? Checkin' drakh out for anything valuable they might be leavin' behind.

"We heard the pack leader talkin' to the crooked leg whot runs the militia. Said there was a big fight comin'. With the Bogazi. That's why they was goin' home. To help with the fight."

The kid looked up at Sten. His eyes were old. "I figure the Suzdal ain't got a chance," he said. "They're mean. But the chickens are meaner. Whatcha think? Suzdal or Bogazi?"