Vortex (28 page)

So, during the flight out from Jochi, the hangar deck of the
Victory
had become a carpentry shop. The lathing Sten had ordered up was wire-tied into rough hedgehog-looking configurations and wrapped with metal foil.

There were several hundred of these blivets stacked on the hangar deck.

On command, these were dumped, a few at a time, into space. They formed a stream, a divider of sorts, between the two fleets. Of course, they were still traveling at the same velocity as the
Victory
, but Sten planned to wreak his next move before his "mines" cleared the field of operations.

They had the immediate and desired effect.

The oncoming fleets went into modified panic mode as the Suzdal and Bogazi sensors picked up the "mines," and their commanders tried to figure out what these strange objects were that were emerging from the Imperial ship like so many bits of candy tossed to the crowds in a parade. On their screens they would have seen the
Victory
, its accompanying destroyer screen, possibly some tacships, and then the mines streaming across their screens.

Very good, very good, Sten thought. They're worried. Now we wait…

Shortly both fleets ordered destroyer squadrons forward to investigate.

Now we show them our dinner plates have bangs in them.

"Admiral Mason?"

"Yessir. All ships… all weapons stations," Mason ordered. "Targets… the destroyers. Mind your discriminators. One target per weapon. Any young officer disobeying that order will be relieved, court-martialed, and cashiered."

Mason, the gentle father figure.

Kalis homed at half speed, or else were told by their discriminators that another missile was swifter on the pickup. Close in, just before the Suzdal and Bogazi destroyers picked them up on their screens, the missiles went to full drive.

Screens on the
Victory's
bridge flared as the Kalis hit, then cleared to show open space where a destroyer had once been.

Three destroyers from the Suzdal and two from the Bogazi survived to return to their parent fleets.

Any analysis would have shown that these missiles were being launched by those strange-appearing "mines."

Sten nodded to Mason once more—and the tacships smashed in from the high elliptic they had held. Get in, launch, and get back out were their orders.

Two cruisers and five destroyers were killed.

Very good, Sten thought. I am sorry beings are dying, but they are not Imperial beings. And fewer are being killed than if battle were joined between the two fleets. Let alone if the Suzdal fleet was allowed to complete its attack on the Bogazi home world.

Now for the coup de, Sten thought. Again, we start by setting the stage.

Ambassador Sten made another broadcast, once more ordering both fleets to break action and return to their home worlds.

But evidently his 'cast was poorly shielded from other com links. These were being made by the
Victory
, and tight-beamed "back" in the direction the
Victory
had come from.

They were coded, of course. But both computer and staff analysis determined that the
Victory
was linked to other ships, ships out of detector range. And it appeared as if it were an entire Imperial fleet, and the
Victory
was but the scout—a monstrously large and well-armed scout, but still a scout—for the real heavies. Minutes later their prog must have worsened, as the
Victory
changed frequencies and code and began broadcasting to
another
, equally "unseen" war fleet.

The Bogazi and Suzdal may have been less than sane in their approach to civil rights, but in military matters they were quite capable.

Without acknowledging Sten's orders, both fleets broke contact and, at full power, fled home.

Sten whoofed air and plumped down into a chair. "Damn," he said honestly, probably blowing his command-cool façade, "I really didn't think that would work."

"It will only work once," Mason said softly, so that his officers could not hear.

"Once is more than enough. We'll blanket their butts with every straight-fact 'cast we can come up with and hope they come to what passes in the Altaics for senses. And if they try again, we'll come up with something stinkier and whomp them again! Hell, Admiral, a clot like you should
always
be able to think of something.

"Now. Return course. For once we're ahead of their clottin' schemes. Let's see if we can stay that way."

Gatchin Fortress had been built to be both impregnable and terrifying. It had never been intended for use as a real fortress, but as a final prison for anyone opposing the Khaqan. It sat, solitary, on a tiny islet nearly a kilometer out at sea. Great stone walls rose straight up from the tiny island's cliffs. There were no beaches, no flat ground outside those walls. And there was no ground access to the island.

Alex and Cind sprawled near the cliff face on the mainland, watching.

They had prepped for their mission far more thoroughly than just throwing a set of warm undies into a ditty bag. They lay under a carefully positioned phototropic camouflage sheet that now shone a white that matched the snowbanks and dirty rocks around them. Each of them had a tripod-mounted high-power set of amplified-light binocs, plus passive heat sensors and motion detectors focused on Gatchin's ramparts and the causeway.

"Damn, but I'm cold," Cind swore.

"Woman, dinnae be complainin't. Ah been on y' world, an' thae's a summer place compared t'it."

"No kidding," Cind said. "And now you know why so many of us live
off-world
. Besides, didn't you tell me your home world was ice, snow, and such?"

"Aye, but th' ice's gentler, somehow. An' th' snoo comi't driftin' doon like flower petals."

"You see anything?"

"Negative. Which is beginnin't t' make me think you're right.''

"We'll know for sure before nightfall. I hope."

"Aye. An' while y're waitin', Ah'll narrate a wee story, thae's got an obvious bearin't ae our present, froze-arsed predic'ment.

"Hae Ah e'er told y' ae th' time Ah entered a limerick contest? Y' ken whae lim'ricks are, aye?"

"We're not totally uncivilized."

"Thae's bonnie.'Twas whae Ah was a wee striplin't, assigned t' a honor guard on Earth. Th' tabs announc'd thae contest. Large credits f r th' prize. Who c'd come up wi' thae dirtiest, filthiest, lim'rick?

"Well, Ah hae braw experience when it com t't' dirty, filthy lim'ricks."

"I've never questioned that."

"Ah'm payin't nae heed nor reck t' thae cheap one, Major. So Ah ship't m' filthy poem away, an aye, 'twas so filthy e'en a striplin't like m'self blushed a bit, thinkin't m' name wae attach't.

"But thae credits wae bonny, as Ah've said. An' lord know't a puir wee ranker needs a' th' coin he can secure. So time pass't an' time pass't, an' then one day Ah sees th' tab, an' Ah'm thunderstrick!

"Ah'm noo th' winner! Ah hae nothin'! Th' winner's some clot nam'd McGuire. D. M. McGuire, ae' th' wee isle ae Eire, they name't it, frae th' city ae Dublin. An' th' lim'rick's so dirty thae cannae e'en run thae own prizewinner!

"An a'ter Ah recover frae m' heartbroke, it starts gnawin't ae me. I mean, thae
cannae
be a filthier lim'rick thae whae Ah submitt'd.

"So Ah taki't a wee bit ae leave, an Ah moseys t' Eire, an' thae cap'tal ae Dublin, an' Ah begins lookin't frae D. M. McGuire. Days an' weeks pass, aye, but finally Ah trackit doon th' last McGuire i' Dublin.

"She's a wee gran lady. Sweet, wi' a twinkle i' her eye, an' a smile ae her lips, an' y' jus'
know
she's goin t't' church ever' day, twice't, an' thae's nae been a foul word cross her lips.

"This cannae be th' D. M. McGuire ae the contest, but Ah'm des'prate. So I screws m' courage t' th' stickity point, an' asks.

"Dam't near crap m' kilt, when she says, 'Aye. Ah am.'

"Ah begs her f'r whae it was.

"I's noo her turn t' blush, an' she say't 'Ah'm a respect'ble widow. Ah cannae use language like thae around a man.'

"She talk't funny, she did. 'Twae hard t' understand her, sometime.

"Ah ask't her to write it doon, e'en. But she cannae do thae, e'er. Thae
must
be the scummiest poem e'er wrote. So Ah argue, an' argue, an' plea, an' finally she say't, 'Cannae Ah tell it, but wi' blankety frae th' vile words?'

"A course, Ah says. Ah'll hae nae grief figurin't it oot frae there.

"An' she tak't ae deep breath, an' recites:

"Blankety-blankety blank

Blankety-blankety blank

Blankety-blank

Blankety-blank

Blankety river of shit.''

After a long silence… a giggle. Alex beamed. "Ah knoo frae th' first thae wae someat aboot y' Ah admired. Noo thae's three.''

"Three what?"

"Three bein's whae admir't m' stories. One's a walrus, one's a lemur, an' y're the third."

"Exalted company indeed," Cind said. "Now, what's the moral that pertains to our present situation?"

"As wi' any braw preacher," Alex said, "Ah dinnae think m' sermons need further explication."

And silence hung down about them.

In fact, the nothing they had seen so far was grimly productive. Cind and Alex had been in their hidey-hole for two full days. They had seen no aircraft approach Gatchin, nor had they seen any sign of sentries atop its walls. At night, only a few lights gleamed from the ominous citadel.

Two hours later, just before dusk, Alex grunted. "Ah hae some'at. Comint frae th' south. Twa gravsleds. Cargo lighters, Ah reck… Whae's th' castle doin't?"

"Nothing," Cind said. "None of those cupolas—I think they're AA launchers—are moving."

"Bad," Alex said. "Worse. Thae's no sign ae guns or guards ae th' lighters, either. An' Ah can make out th' cargo ae th' deck. Clot. Rations. Rations enow frae noo more'n a platoon, Ah'd guess. Y' hae them i' your eyeballs noo?"

"I do," Cind said. She watched as the lighters settled down onto an overhead landing deck. After a moment, she saw a couple of uniformed men come out to meet the lighter. Neither of them was visibly armed, unless they were carrying pistols.

"No security at all," she said.

"No food, no security, no guards, which mean't no prisoners, aye?"

"Right."

"So where'd Doc Isky stash th' usual suspects?"

Cind shook her head. No clues.

"Shall we start lookin't? Knowin't we dinnae want to find?"

And at full dark, they bundled up the surveillance post in silence. Both of them had a pretty good idea where the purged soldiers and officials were. All they had to do was confirm their suspicions.

"Rejected," Iskra stormed. "Rejected. Unable to meet requested quota at this time. Personnel not available. All patrol elements available for client governments are committed for foreseeable future. What the hell is going on?"

"The Empire is still recovering, sir," Venloe said, his voice most neutral. "There's not exactly the cornucopia available that there was before the war.''

"I am not concerned with the Empire," Iskra said. "What I am concerned about is the absolute failure of the Imperial system to support its ruler. The Emperor chose me to bring The Altaic Cluster back to stability and order. Yet I am denied the tools I must have to accomplish my task."

Venloe thought of saying something—Iskra's massive shopping list had been either arrogant, ignorant, or insane. Among other items Iskra had requested—demanded—were a full division of Imperial Guards for his security, two first-line battle squadrons from the Imperial Navy, and a flat doubling of the AM2 quota for the Altaics, with no justification given on any item other than "to continue the reestablishment of a legal government and public order.''

"Do these bastards want me to fail?"

"I doubt that, doctor."

"The Emperor had best make these bureaucrats aware of one thing. I am certainly the only one who can bring peace to this cluster. My continued success is vital. Not only for my people, but for the Empire, as well. So far, I have been a loyal supporter of Prime World's policies. I doubt if anyone involved with the highest levels of Imperial authority would be happy if I should choose to consider other alternatives."

Venloe, by now, was getting better at covering his reactions to Iskra's pronouncements. This last, however, forced him to suddenly turn his attention to a com screen that was showing nothing particularly important. By the time he turned back to Dr. Iskra, his expression was again bland, pleasing.

He decided, however, that he would not ask Iskra to elaborate. Other alternatives? Such as what? The shattered Tahn? The ghosts of the dead privy council?

Did the good doctor now think the Emperor needed him more than he needed the Emperor?

That information, once relayed, would certainly produce an interesting reaction. Venloe did not, however, look forward to relaying it.

Sten had expected to return to mountains of problems and whirlpools of disaster. Instead:

"Nae problem, boss. Ah did th' important stuff, Cind took th' normal tasks, an' Otho ignored th' dross. Y' c'd a' stayed on y'r wee vacation another year wi'oot bein't missed."

"Shall we kill him, Cind?" the Bhor rumbled.

"Later."

"You'll have to stand in line," Sten said. "I outrank both of you."

"Why are we not drinking?" Otho said. "To celebrate the return of our warrior-king Sten. Or to celebrate it is the first day of the week, whichever feels more important."

"Because, lad, we're workin't t'night."

Alex, looking smug, indicated that Sten should make the explanation. Sten grinned—the heavy worlder was more than a bit better at keeping Sten's feet buried in firm loam than that slave who was supposed to whisper "This too shall pass" in an imperator's ear during his triumphs. Or whatever the phrase had been.

"That rifle we bugged and let the baddies steal seems to have settled in for the winter," he said. "I think we should exercise visitation rights."