Vortex (29 page)

"Hah," Otho said. "Good. I do not truck with these Imperial soldiers. But those two brothers they butchered—they need a blessing sent to hell for them. I hope that rifle is not all alone, concealed in the closet of some pimple-faced alley shooter.''

"I don't think so. It's hidden somewhere in the back of a takeout food store."

Otho grunted in pleasure. "Good. Probably not just a single villain. Snack place, hmm. That's a good cover for lots of people going in, coming out. I will remember that.

"So, this is a group, most likely. Does anyone have a clue who they are murdering for?''

"Not yet. That's one of the things we want."

"How hard do we hit them?"

"I want intelligence," Sten said. "Body count is all right if the place is guarded, but it's distinctly secondary. Cind?"

"Ummm… do you have an overhead on the area? Thanks. Open access to the rear, we'll need one squad. We'll go in with—let's see, another squad for the front, one platoon backup, four in the door. Keep a company in reserve, I guess."

"We will nae' be beggin't assistance frae Colonel Geraty ae his Guardsmen." It was not even a question.

"Absolute negative," Sten said. "I'm assuming there could be a leak from them and sure as hell a leak if we transmit it through the embassy and into Iskra's com link. And if we start pumping secure signals direct to the Guards, somebody might smell something."

"Are you thinking, my Sten, that scrote Iskra has his own private terrorists?''

"Right now, Otho," Sten said, suddenly feeling tired, "I suspect everyone in this clotting cluster of joining or heading up death squads. Except you two."

"An' whae aboot me, boss?"

"Hah. I say again my last. Hah. I
know
you. Now. Enough frigging about. We'll go in with the Bhor for the terror factor. The Gurkhas stay in reserve."

"They won't like that," Cind said.

"Good. I intend for them to not like it. The way things are going, I think I'm going to need me some
very
angry young men in the very near future.

"Major Cind, write the ops order. We've got complete dark of the moons by 0245. We'll move then."

There was only a single light on in the restaurant, in back of the pay counter. Behind the heavy gratings Sten could see that the interior was deserted, as was the street.

"Who'e'er this place is a cover for," Alex whispered, "hae confidence. Nae e'en a watchman. Or else thae found m' bug an' left it i' th' grease trap f'r a wee joke."

"Confidence—or else they've paid for cover. Look." Sten pointed up as a police gravsled hissed slowly over the rooftops.

"Whae aboot them? Or are we irk't enow t' start killin't cops?"

"Otho has orders to put up some flares and airburst some grenades if there's interference," Cind said. "That should suggest the big boys are playing and they'll stay away. But if they escalate, so do we." The com clipped to a loop on the shoulder of her combat vest clicked. "Rear squad's in position. We're ready."

"Then shall we?"

Blur:

Kilgour was up; at waist level, he swung a solid-steel battering ram with two handgrips, as if it were a pumice fake. Impact—and grating and door and jamb pinwheeled into the building. Alex let go, and momentum sent the battering ram with the debris as he ducked out of the way…

Cind thumbed a bester grenade inside…

Eyecover and purpleflash…

Sten spun through the door, back against solid cover, gun sweeping…

Cind rolled in, going flat…

Sten ducked forward, toward the kitchen's entrance…

Kilgour in the shop, covering; Cind up, leapfrogging Sten into the kitchen; Sten moving, Kilgour providing cover…

Back room deserted…

Kilgour up with the battering ram…

"Laraz," Sten shouted. A password to keep them from getting shot…

The door crashing down and dark night outside…

Gun barrels… hairy Bhor faces peering over sights…

"Clear," Sten shouted. "Close up your units, Cind. Keep the reserve platoon across the street.

"Otho. Three troopies!"

"Sir."

"It's o'er here, Skip. Under th' stove."

"Need a hand?"

"Hah."

Kilgour put his weapon down and, seemingly without strain, lifted the huge kitchen range to one side. Stove power lines screeched but did not rupture.

"A wee hidey-hole," he observed, reaching down and pulling up on a small metal ring, inset into the concrete floor. The ring—and floor—lifted smoothly, a counterbalanced trapdoor.

"Y'reka," he observed. "An' Y-not-reka. Boss?"

"Hang on a shake. You three," Sten said to the waiting three gorilla-substitutes. "I want you to tear the place apart. Make it look like somebody's done a rip-away-the-walls search before they found the hiding place. There's no point in giving away all our secrets."

The three Bhor looked at each other. It wasn't as good as killing someone—but at least it was destruction. They went to work happily, smashing and crashing.

"And what do we have?" Sten had to lift his voice over the shatter.

"W hae a typ'cal terrorist's arsenal," Kilgour observed.

Alex was correct—but it was a very large typical terrorist's stash—a basement room nearly three meters on a side, packed with weaponry. The guns were what Sten expected—just what any private thuggery, or, depending whose side they were on, freedom fighter, would secrete: stolen, bought, or purchased sporting arms in a dizzy array of calibers. Military armament, stolen from or contributed by the Jochi army. Two very elderly crew-served support weapons. Six or seven home-built mortars. A few bombs for same. A half case of grenades. Not enough ammunition for all of the guns. Some knives. Sten thought he even saw a clotting sword. Three or four pistols on a shelf. And two Imperial-issue willyguns.

"Noo, one ae' them's ours," Kilgour said. "But where'd th' other lad come frae?"

"Who knows? Willyguns've been around for a long time," Sten said. "Maybe somebody at the embassy had one before us. Maybe the Third Guard lost one and hasn't realized it yet."

Kilgour tossed one of the sporting rifles up for Sten to examine. Sten then gave it to Cind, who ran a fast, professional eye over it.

"Most of my experience is with real soldiers,'' she said. "This clot is filthy."

"Nae as bad ae most," Kilgour observed. "Most tens ae m' acquaintance hae more time f'r rhetoric thae bore-cleanin't. Boss, w' hae th' cheese noo. Are we haein' public ootcry or whae?"

"We'll blow it in place," Sten decided. "You see anything down there that'd link this to anyone?"

"Negative, skip. Thae's professional enow t' no leave callin't cards. Hello. Whae's
this
?"

He passed it up to Sten.
This
was a pistol—but a pistol that fired AM2 rounds. Sten lifted an eyebrow. The Empire, for obvious reasons, tried to keep as tight a hold on the superlethal willyguns as possible. That held doubly true for pistols, even though that weapon, in fact, was suited only for robberies, last stands, plinking, and parades. For such an arm to be in private hands was most unusual.

And this pistol was even more special. It was anodized with what appeared to be both silver and gold. The grips were some kind of translucent white horn. And the entire weapon had been engraved with scrollwork.

Sten examined the engraving closely—no hunting scenes or beings that might give a clue as to what world this surprise had come from.

"Is there a holster?" he asked.

"Aye. An' ae th' finest. Real leather, Ah'd hazard. No initials, no maker's marks, no nothing."

"This," Cind observed, after she had examined the gun closely, "is something an ambassador might give a ruler. Or the other way around. I wonder if we ran the serial numbers, would we find that the late Imperial ambassador happened to be on the sales roster? Or it's recipient—intended, anyway—someone like the Khaqan?"

"Y' hae th' ball," Kilgour cautioned. "Dinnae be runnin't wi' it, no matter how good th' sup'sition might be. All we hae's a muckety's toy f'r sure. Seems a pity t' destroy somethin' like thae."

"It does," Sten said. "It's fitting for a laird. Keep it, Alex—no. Wait."

Alex grinned, most evilly. He was not even slightly disappointed at the evident loss of his souvenir. "Y' hae a dream?"

"You'll get it next time around,'' Sten said. "When we recover it again. I'd like for that pistol to maybe give us something else. Pull that bug out of the willygun. See if you can plant it in this little beauty."

"Nae problemo, boss."

"Now, when you planted the charges to destroy this assemblage of death," Sten went on, "what happened is that only two of them went off. A third one just burned—but make sure it burned up and the detonator's gone. We don't want to make the scenario so realistic the baddies get some real bangs.

"Since the blast wasn't complete, it destroyed all of the long arms, but blew the pistols up—over there."

"Why," Kilgour complained, "d' all th' schemes start wi' me, th' great powder monk ae th' ages, bein't inept?"

Sten extended his hand, all fingers in a fist except the middle one, which was rigidly extended. "That, Mr. Kilgour, is the only response a drunken, relieved, and stockaded sentry can come up with. Now let's blow this joint before the local yokels hear something or get forced to pay attention."

Kilgour called for a demo pack and started wiring the place. Cind pulled the Bhor outside into a perimeter. Sten left his demo man alone. This wasn't the hardest job Kilgour had ever rigged—among other things, he had once defused a nuclear device under close-range hostile fire and booby-trapped a camel—but it required a bit of concentration.

"How do you know," Cind asked, "that somebody will pick up that pistol and we can track it to another arsenal?"

"I don't—not for sure. But people who make their living around things that go bang seem to get a little wiggy if you show them a trick knife or handgun.

"But I'm hoping for it leading us to something more than just another safe box. I'd be very happy if that lovely, ornate piece ends up in the hands of someone with the authority to appreciate it."

"Like who?"

"Like whoever's running this organization. Which would give us somebody to deal with in the open."

"Sten, you are an evil man."

"You're just saying that to get in my pants."

"This is true. And I'd kiss you, except it'd be bad for discipline."

"Mine or the Bhor?"

"Yours, of course."

But she kissed him anyway.

Venloe tried to read the face on the screen. He could not. "Is that everything?" the man asked. "It is, sir."

It was so silent that Venloe could hear the carrier wave hum. "Do you have any suggestions?" After a pause, Venloe said, "No."

"Go ahead. We must consider all possibilities." The man on the screen touched, as if unconsciously, the center of his chest.

Venloe chose his words carefully. "When you briefed me for this assignment, I asked… about a fallback option."

"And I said I was not prepared to discuss that eventuality. I was not then, and I am not now. My policy is quite firm. Dr. Iskra is to be given the fullest support."

"Yes, sir. I apologize."

Again, silence.

"An apology is not necessary. I do not mean for my servants to be slaves. I want one thing very clear. Dr. Iskra is to be ruler of the Altaic Cluster. That is the primary objective. However… however, what you referred to as a fallback option cannot be ignored. Explore its possibilities and ramifications."

The screen went blank.

Venloe nodded in automatic obedience. And, even though there was no one to hear him, he replied, "Yes, Your Majesty."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

T
he Eternal Emperor listened thoughtfully to Sten's report on Dr. Iskra. He made no comment as Sten took each stone from the bucket and stacked it upon its miserable brother.

Sten told him about the student massacre. The proof that it was Iskra's work. The deliberate disinformation campaign to stir up war among the inhabitants of the Altaic Cluster. The lies Iskra had told to cover his campaign of terror. The mysterious attacks on Imperial personnel. The empty fortress. And much more.

Finally, he was done. Sten waited, hoping to see which way the wind was blowing.

"I assume," the Emperor said, "that your recommendation in this matter does not come down on the side of Dr. Iskra."

"I'm sorry, sir," Sten said, "but it's my job to tell you things you're not especially going to like."

"Quite right," the Emperor said. "Otherwise, you'd be as useless as all these fools I've got around me. One thing I do know, Sten, is that I can always trust you to tell me the truth—no matter how unpleasant."

"Thank you, sir. Now… if you'll allow me—"

"Hold on," the Emperor said. "No need to go further."

"I beg your pardon, sir?" Sten was truly bewildered. He was also unsettled by this new habit the Emperor had adopted of never looking him in the face. And those damned eyes. Moving back and forth as if they were active ball bearings.

"I said, no need to say more. I know what your recommendation is going to be. Unfortunately, I have to reject it.

"Iskra stays. You will continue to support him."

"I'm very sorry to hear that, sir. And I hope you won't take this the wrong way—but I'd like to be relieved of my post."

The Emperor's eyes ceased their restless moving. Just for a moment. They bored into him like cold steel. Then the Emperor laughed. "I can see why you'd say that, Sten," he said. "You think I've lost confidence in you."

"Possibly, sir. But that's not for me to judge. It's just that… well, you need someone you can trust to carry out your orders."

"I've already said I trust you, Sten."

"Yessir. But I've already made it plain I disagree."

"True. However, agreement has nothing to do with it. These are my orders. You should also know that Dr. Iskra has asked me to have you replaced. I firmly rejected his request."

"Yes, sir." Sten couldn't think of anything else to say.