Vortex (24 page)

Sten handed over the rest of the credits. "Do you care?"

"Clot no! Just tryin' to figure the odds. The money's on the Bogazi in our neighborhood. Ten to one. Thought maybe you'd tell me somethin' so I could shave 'em some. Get down some serious action."

He waved the fistful of bribe money in Sten's face. "Way I figure," the kid said, "guy's just gotta get a bet down any chance he gets. I mean, a person could be runnin' around lucky all day and never know it. If you know what I mean."

"I certainly do," Sten said. He left, thinking even less of his chances than before.

"My vision is a simple one, General," Iskra said. "But I think you'll agree that simplicity of concept is the first definition."

"Without question," General Douw said. "This is one of your attributes I have admired from afar for years. You see a thing, a complex thing, and then with a little rearranging it is no longer complex. It is simple. It is real. It is genius." Douw didn't have the faintest idea what he was saying. It didn't matter. The general was an expert at flattery. He sipped at the water Iskra had given him as refreshment—pretended to savor it as if it were wine.

"It's like the glass of water,'' he said, grabbing for any kind of analogy at all. "I see water, but you see…" His brain slipped a cog. What the clot did Iskra see? Maybe he just saw water. Personally, Douw could see a green-skinned amphibian. One that went croak, croak, croak.

"Yes. Go on," Iskra said. "What do I see, General?"

"A symbol," Douw gasped out. "That's it! Symbolism. Now who but a genius could see symbolism in a simple glass of water?" He quickly checked Iskra's face to see how this bit of verbal dancing had gone down. The doctor was beaming and nodding. Whew. Thank God.

"You strike for the heart of the matter, as always," Iskra said. "This is why I felt I needed you. I knew I would find a kindred spirit."

"Absolutely," Douw said, brushing back his silver locks with a nervous hand. "No question about it."

What an old fool, Iskra thought. "You are perhaps the most respected individual in the military, General," he said.

"Why, thank you."

"It is only the truth. You have a reputation for loyalty. And as a fierce defender of Jochi tradition.''

"The old ways were best," Douw said. This was a subject he could warm to quickly. "Sometimes I think the old values have been put aside too hastily.''

"That is
exactly
my vision," Iskra said.

"It is?"

"Of course. But it will take harsh measures to return us to the glory days of our Jochi forefathers."

"True. How true. Unfortunate. But true."

"However, I certainly do not wish you to become involved in the
real
unpleasantness. There are things that need to be done that I fear would tarnish the reputation of a true Jochi soldier. I will have… Special Duty units trained and outfitted for these tasks, and they will be responsible directly to me, and outside the military's usual chain of command."

Douw beamed. "How perceptive of you, sir."

"However, I wish you to command my conventional forces in the struggle to bring peace to our glorious cluster. It will require cool thinking, and unshakable purpose."

"Then I am your man," Douw said. "And thank you for the honor.''

"When our people first came to this cluster,'' Iskra continued, "they were faced with a hostile territory filled with ignorant species and a barbarian breed of humans."

"Terrible times. Terrible," Douw babbled.

"There were not so many of us, then."

"How true. I've always said that myself. Not many of us in those days. But we made up for numbers with bravery."

"And one other thing," Iskra said.

"Right. That other thing. It was—uh—"

"Wit," Iskra said.

"That's it. Wit. Was on the tip of my tongue."

"To suppress those beasts—I'm sorry, I'm not with the modernists. They are beasts. Nothing more. To suppress those beasts, our ancestors adopted a tactic summed up by a simple, elegant phrase. The phrase and all it stands for, I believe, is a vital part of Jochi heritage."

"I know the answer," Douw said, "but your words are much finer than mine. Please say it for both of us."

"Divide and conquer," Iskra said. "We brought the beasts to their knees by that simple ploy. Our forefathers inflamed the Suzdal and Bogazi. And the Torks, as well. And we put them at each other's throats.

"We even made a tidy profit selling arms to all sides. We let them kill each other. And then we stepped in to rule."

"By God, we should do the same thing now!" Douw smacked fist into palm, his patriotic heart aflutter. "Divide and conquer. A return to hallowed tradition."

"Then… you'll accept the post I'm offering?"

"With pride, sir," Douw boomed. "With pride." He wiped a manly tear from the corner of an eye.

Menynder had a shabby little walled estate in the center of a Tork neighborhood.

Sten's professional eye noted that the shabby look was carefully cultured. The walls were chipped and vine-covered. The big entry gate was old and sagging. The garden just inside the gates was overgrown. But the security wire circling the walls was bright and new. The gate was reinforced with steel. And the garden invasion was proofed with thorny hedges or saw-toothed ferns.

Menynder's intelligence profile showed that he had money. Heaps of it, for a Tork. But he was careful not to flaunt it. Just as he had been careful to quickly make himself scarce the moment the drakh hit the fan.

"I'm in mourning," Menynder explained as he cast the fishing line into the green waters of the pool.

Sten sat beside him on the banks of the pond. The rain had turned to baking hot sunshine. But it was cool here under the tree that shaded the old Tork's favorite fishing spot. Menynder reeled in the line, checked the bait and lure, and made another cast.

"A death in the family? I'm very sorry to hear that," Sten said.

Menynder removed his glasses, dabbed at nonexistent tears, and replaced the glasses. "It was a young cousin… He died at Pooshkan."

Sten started to say he was sorry again, but caught a cynical glint in Menynder's eye. "How close was this cousin?" he asked instead.

Menynder grinned. "I don't know—seventh, eight removed. We weren't very close. Still, it was a shock."

"I can only imagine," Sten said.

"I'm so shaken," Menynder continued, "that I fear it will be at least a year before I can show my face in public again."

"Do you really think the Altaics will calm down by then?" Sten asked.

"If it doesn't," Menynder said, "I'll have a relapse. Grief is a sneaky disease. It comes and goes. Comes and goes." He reeled in his line, then cast it out.

"Like a fever," Sten said.

"Yeah. Without the trouble of symptoms. A man can grieve and fish at the same time."

"Funny thing about fishing," Sten said, "is that you look wonderfully purposeful. No one ever bothers a person when he's fishing."

"I get the idea I'm not the only one fishing here, Sr. Ambassador," Menynder said. He tried another spot in the pond.

"I guess I'm just trying to think of the right bait," Sten said.

Menynder gave a firm shake of his head. "Forget it. There aren't enough credits and honors to draw me out. I've lived a long life. I'd like to finish it out naturally."

"Hard thing to accomplish these days," Sten said.

"Isn't that the truth." Menynder's line tangled in debris. He gave a flip of the rod and shook it loose. "Frankly, I don't see that it will get better. Not in my lifetime."

"It'll be solved," Sten said firmly. "One way or the other."

"I assume you have plans for me being involved in the solution?"

"Yes, I do."

"You're probably thinking that because I was fool enough to stick my neck out."

"You got some beings talking together whose normal reactions are to fight instead."

"I used to think I was good at that sort of thing," Menynder said. He reeled in the line three clicks.

"You still are. From where I sit."

"Rotten, useless talent. If a talent it even is. Personally, I think I'm just a clottin' good liar."

"Some big things are going to be coming down," Sten said. "A long time ago—under similar circumstances—I advised a being like you to get out of the line of fire. I told him the best thing to do was develop a good hacking cough."

"Did he take your advice?"

"He did."

"Did he live?"

"He did. He also prospered."

"But—you want
me
to do just the opposite?"

"Yeah."

"You gave the other guy better advice."

"That was then. This is now."

"No offense, Sr. Sten, but I don't have the awesome majesty of an Imperial appointment to protect me. I've got squat for security. Even if I did, this is the first place the good doctor would send the battalions with the jackboots and clubs."

"You don't think Iskra is going to work out either?"

"Clot, no! What really slays me is that I once mentioned his name myself. Favorably. Tell your boss he fouled this one up good. But don't quote me. I'd rather skip the attention, if it's okay with you."

"I won't lie and say you're the only hope," Sten said. "But you could be an important one."

"You think I should risk my life—and my family—for some noble tilting at windmills? To save the Altaic Cluster?''

"Isn't it worth it?"

Menynder reeled in his line, thinking. Then he sighed. "I don't know."

"Will you help me?"

"Maybe some other time," Menynder said.

Sten got to his feet. He looked out at the green waters of the pond, wondering why he hadn't seen even the dim shape of a fish.

'"Is there anything in there?" he asked.

"Used to be," Menynder said. "I used to stock it every year. Then the weather got real wonky. Case you hadn't noticed. Did something to the water. Changed the balance, or whatever. All the fish died."

"But you're still fishing."

Menynder laughed and cast his line out again. "Sure. You never know when you might catch something."

* * *

Sten found Kaebak, the Bogazi foreign minister, in the embassy compound. She was lowering the flag. Kaebak was alone except for her security force. Everyone else had already departed for the spaceport. Kaebak planned to join them. Hastily.

"There's no need for this," Sten said. "I can guarantee the security of your embassy.''

"Bogazi not need security," Kaebak said. "Fear is not in us. Anger is. Suzdal forget Bogazi anger. We make them sorry they forget."

"Why are you blaming the Suzdal for what's happening? Their pups died at Pooshkan, as well."

"Bah. This is lie. Suzdal make propaganda. Blame Bogazi for own bad deed. This is excuse. They want war. Fine. We give them all they want."

As far as Kaebak was concerned, the interview was over. She stepped up into her transport. Sten made one last effort.

"Come to the Imperial embassy with me," he said. "Let me open my intelligence files. You'll see that the Suzdal are dupes as much as the Bogazi."

The transport lurched into life. Sten stepped back. Kaebak poked her beak out the window.

"They fool you, too. Not need to look at Suzdal lies. I go home. Help hutchmates make doggy stew."

Sten's rotten luck persisted throughout the day and into the early hours of the next. He put in call after call for the Eternal Emperor.

But each time he was turned away with the tiresome message that the Emperor was indisposed—and no one would tell him how long this sickly state was going to last.

Sten was flying blind and in desperate need of guidance. The situation was getting worse by the hour.

Iskra, he was certain, had to go.

But there was only one being who could make that decision. The fate of the Altaics hung in the balance.

He took one last stab at it.

"I am so very sorry, Sr. Ambassador," came the soothing tones of the Imperial secretary. "I am sure the Emperor will return your call as soon as he is able. Yes, I gave him your messages. Yes, I indicated their extreme urgency. So sorry for the inconvenience, Sr. Ambassador. But I'm sure you'll understand." Sten ground his teeth. Where the clot was the Emperor?

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

"I
've been meaning to have this little session with you for some time," the Emperor said. "The delay is unforgivable, really. I owe you and your organization a great deal."

The old woman chortled her response. "It is ours (giggle) to serve, Your (giggle) Eminence. After all, isn't that what the (giggle) Cult of The Eternal Emperor is all about?"

"Still. You stood by my… memory… in difficult times."

"How could any (giggle) time be difficult," Zoran asked, "when you are with us (giggle)
always
?"

The Emperor made no attempt to answer. He let the silence lay there, dark as the room he had had the old woman ushered into. He had wanted to create a certain atmosphere for his task: a gloomy majesty. But Zoran's infernal giggling kept lightening the gloom. It was making him angry.

Which was a rotten way to start. She was such an odd old bird. One hundred and fifty plus years, but with the well-formed body of a young woman under her orange robes. As the high priestess (elected) of a cult, she should have been—or so he had expected—a buzz-brain. That had been confirmed by the constant giggling—until he realized that the giggling was an artifice to throw a questioner off. And her eyes blazed with more intelligence than rapture from being in his exalted presence.

"Is it true," he finally said, "that your, ah, organization believes I am a god?"

"A representation of the (giggle) Holy Spheres, is a better description of our (giggle) beliefs, your majesty," Zoran said.

"Then… you
don't
worship me as a god."

"Worship is such a (giggle) nondescriptive word, Your (giggle) Eminence. We don't sacrifice (giggle) fat lambs, or our first (giggle) born. But we do (giggle) honor you."

"As a god?"