Vortex (49 page)

The
Victory
was still on the ground, waiting.

One AU off Rurik, Sten sent the message
en clair
, punched through with max power, direct to the Emperor's private channel, second transmission to the Imperial office:

ALL IMPERIAL UNITS SUCCESSFULLY EVACUATED FROM RURIK IN GOOD ORDER. IMPERIAL UNITS NOW ON DIRECT COURSE FOR PRIME WORLD. ALTAIC CLUSTER NOW IN OPEN REVOLT AGAINST THE EMPIRE.

STEN

Now, court-martial me, he thought. You insane bastard.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

M
ahoney waited in a prisoner-for-transport cell beneath the large new building that was Internal Security's headquarters. It was a small room, with white plas walls, a fold-up sleeping bench, and a hole in the floor for body wastes.

In a few minutes they would take him to his hearing before the Imperial grand jury. He was dressed in the pure white coveralls required by law for indicted criminals. The color was symbolic. White indicated presumed innocence. It also indicated that the prisoner's statements had not been produced by torture.

Mahoney had to admit that in his case the latter was true. So far. He had been treated with rough but professional courtesy. Sure, he had been beaten. The first time when they loaded him on the transport to Prime. But that had only been to alert him to his new station in life—bruises and blood to show him who was boss. There had been no emotion in the beating. Nothing personal. The same all along the processing line, as he was transferred from one IS group to another.

When the beatings stopped, Ian knew his hearing date had been set. It was a routine precaution. To make sure everything had healed in time for his appearance.

Mahoney had weathered the experience well. Not that he was philosophical about his fate. He refused to think about it at all. To dwell on the betrayal would only serve to soften him up—for the probably inevitable brainscan.

Instead, he thought about old adventures. Friends. Lovers. He never thought about food. Mahoney was glad that prison fare was efficiently bland. Otherwise, those meals the Emperor had fixed for him with his own hands would have come back to haunt.

Ian's hackles rose, his old Mantis senses prickling. Someone was watching. He made himself relax. Then he heard rustling at the cell door.

Ah, they've finally come, Ian. Be still, heart. And you there, lungs. You're not needing so much air. Steady on, boyos. Be of good Irish cheer.

Poyndex looked through the two-way as the IS screws hustled Mahoney out of the PFT cell. He was surprised at how well the man looked and wondered if he could do the same in Mahoney's position. He pushed that thought away. It was a talent he would just as soon leave undiscovered.

He stepped out into the hallway to intercept Mahoney and the guards. Ian saw him. From the flicker in his eyes, Poyndex knew he was recognized. The flicker vanished and was replaced with a grin.

"Oh, ho. So the boss sent the first team in," Mahoney said. "I'd say I'm honored, but I'd be lying."

Poyndex laughed. "I don't want to be responsible for a lie," he said. "We wouldn't want to start the grand jury proceedings on the wrong foot."

He told a guard to remove Mahoney's restraints, then waved the guards away. "I'll be your escort," he told Ian. "I'm sure you won't try anything… foolish."

Mahoney rubbed life back into his wrists. "Why would I? I'm an innocent man. Joyfully waiting for justice to be done." He laughed.

Poyndex grinned back and indicated the far corridor door. They both started walking, Poyndex just a half step behind Mahoney.

"Actually, I've come along to make sure that's exactly what you get," Poyndex said. "The Emperor wants complete fairness."

"Oh, certain he does," Mahoney chortled. "And tell him his old friend, Ian, is humbly thankful for this courtesy."

Poyndex forced a small chuckle of appreciation. He had decidedly mixed feeling about his mission. On the one hand, Ian Mahoney was his sole competition for the power he now wielded. Disgrace had ended that competition.

"Tell him not to worry," Mahoney said. "When questioned I'll stick to the facts. I have no intention of bringing his name into these proceedings."

"An unnecessary promise," Poyndex said smoothly. "But, I'm sure he will be pleased you're still thinking of his best interests—that you remember your past relationship."

On the other hand, Mahoney
had
once stood in Poyndex's shoes. He had been the Eternal Emperor's faithful servant for decades. As he watched Mahoney walking tall toward his fate, Poyndex feared for his own. This is what will happen, he thought, if you should fall from grace.

A whisper in the back of his mind hissed: Not if… but
when
.

"Tell the boss I remember," Mahoney said. "I remember very well."

"I'll do that," Poyndex said. "And that's a promise."

His hand dipped into his pocket, then came out. As they reached the door, Poyndex pressed the silenced barrel against the soft spot at the back of Mahoney's neck.

There was a quick flinch of skin from sudden cold.

Poyndex fired.

Mahoney tumbled forward. Slammed into the door. Sagged down.

Poyndex stood over the body, amazed. Mahoney's face still carried that damned Irish grin.

He bent down, pressed the barrel against Mahoney's head, and fired again.

With a man like Ian Mahoney, you had to make double damned sure.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

"F
are thee well, you banks ae Sicily, fare thee well, thee brooks an' dells, frae thae's noo Scots soldier thae's mourn th' last of ye," Alex hummed from memory, thinking fondly of a very tall brew as soon as the fleet was absolutely clear of anything, including vacuum, that resembled the Altaic Cluster.

He was idly punching through various public channels being cast from the Imperial worlds ahead. Nearby, Sten was collapsed in the
Victory's
CO station—but no one asked him to move. Both of them still wore their torn, filthy combat uniforms.

The bridge was near-silent—probably because no one thought they would actually have gotten away with this one.

"Sports," Kilgour muttered, finding another cast. "Ah dinnae ken whae thae's bein's thae think thae's virtue in puntin' a wee sack ae leather frae one chalk't line t' another.

"Reminds me," he said to Freston, who sat near the console, "ae th' time thae tried t' make m' play a clottin' sport ae gentlebein'ts call't crickit. First Ah thinks thae's mad, goin't chirp—"

And his mouth snapped closed.

No one exactly remembered what the liviecaster on-screen was saying. But it was very clear:

Disgrace… once hero of the Tahn war… Governor General… supreme penalty… Ian Mahoney… name to be stricken from all records and monuments… traitorous…

Sten was standing beside him. His face was white.

"That's torn it," he whispered.

Kilgour started to say something, then shook his head. He swallowed.

He heard the snarl from the watch officer behind him: "Watch your screens, mister. What's that com that just ran?"

"Uh… sorry… it's coded."

"I can tell it's coded," the watch officer said. "Who's it to? Who's it from?"

"Sir… I think… Prime. And… and it's intended for the
Caligula
… I think."

"Don't think, mister. Know!"

"Sir…we don't have the code. It's not indexed."

Sten forced shock and anger about Mahoney's murder away. "What is the signal?"

"We don't know, sir. From Prime to
Caligula
, sir."

"I heard
that
. Patch me to Mason."

"Yessir."

Caligula,
this is
Victory,
over
.

… This is
Caligula,
over
.

This is
Victory.
What was the transmission you received
?

Wait one… signal being decoded…

"How th' clot," Kilgour wondered, hair on the back of his neck starting to lift, "d' thae hae' th' code an' we dinnae?"

"Sir! The
Caligula's
broken contact."

"Reestablish."

Caligula,
this is
Victory,
over
. Caligula,
this is
Victory.
Do you receive this transmission
?

"Sir, the
Caligula's
broadcasting."

"GA."

"Not to us, sir. To its DD screen. Burst transmission. I didn't get it."

Sten was trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Then he noticed the main maneuver screen.

The
Caligula
had broken fleet formation, together with the four destroyers that normally screened the battleship. It set a new course…

"What's the
Caligula's
new orbit?"

"Wait one, sir… it appears to be a near-reciprocal track from the fleet's. Straight—I'm estimating—back toward Jochi!"

There was a rumble of surprise.

"Quiet on the bridge."

Sten forced his mind to function. What the clot was going on? He found he had spoken aloud.

"Sir?" It was Freston. "I think I might know."

"One ray of light. Talk to me!"

"Uh… sir, before I was assigned to you, I was com officer on the
Churchill
. And the captain had been given a private code when he took command. There was another copy in the ship's safe, to be given to the XO or whoever took over if the CO was a casualty.''

"GA. But why the clot would the
Caligula—or
Mason—have a code that we don't? We're the flagship."

"Yessir. But—but we're not carrying a planet buster."

Of course. The Empire did not like even to admit that it had weaponry heavy enough to shatter a planet. But it did. Planet busters were
never
used—even during the height of the Tahn war they had not been launched.

For the Emperor, it had little to do with morality. Genocide made lousy politics, he used to say. That
had
been the Emperor's view. Apparently, went Sten's grim thoughts, the Eternal Emperor had changed his mind. Perhaps it had never been a moral issue for the Emperor. But it certainly had been for Sten.

"Is the
Caligula
answering?" Sten asked.

"Negative, sir."

"Commander, do you have a tacship flight on standby?"

"Of course."

"I want one ship. The best pilot on the
Victory
. Kali-armed. Launch time as soon as I get to the hangar deck."

Kilgour was on his feet, starting for the companionway.

"Alex! I want you here on the bridge. I'll be broadcasting from
the
tacship, but I want the com linked to the
Victory
.''

"Y' dinnae need me frae that, skip."

"And I want a synth that'll match analysis."

"Right. Ah hae it noo. Away wi' y' lad."

And Sten was running for the
Victory's
hangar.

The tacship flashed out from the
Victory's
port and, barely clear of the mother ship, went to full AM2 drive.

"What's the IP?"

La Ciotat didn't need to look at a screen.

"Fifty-three… fifty-one minutes, sir."

"Fine." Sten sat at the weapons officer's station, adjusting the control helmet to his own head.

"Here's the drill. The
Caligula
is headed back for Jochi. It's going to launch a planet buster."

La Ciotat, priding herself on her poker face, wasn't able to control her expression. "But what—is Admiral Mason mutinying, or—"

"You do not need to know, Ms. I want you to hold a closing course on the
Caligula
and have your com person keep an open link to the
Victory
. I want you to notify me when we're within… five minutes of the
Caligula
. Do you have any trouble with those orders?"

"No, sir."

"Keep us from getting tagged by the destroyers. I'm pretty sure they'll have orders to stop us."

"
That's
not even a concern. Sir."

Sten almost smiled—it sounded like La Ciotat
was
drakh-hot.

"
Caligula
, this is
Victory
. Admiral Mason, this is Sten, over."

"Still no response."

"
Caligula
, this is Sten, over. Patch me to your Six Actual. That is an order, over.''

"Seven minutes to intercept, sir."

"Goddammit…"

The screen on the tacship suddenly cleared, and Sten saw Mason's face.

Mason—or so Sten hoped, at least—would be seeing Sten, or a computer synthesis of Sten, back on the bridge of the
Victory
and never think that his response had been almost immediate and that he was, in fact, aboard a tacship bare minutes behind the
Caligula
.

"Admiral Mason, I think I understand your mission," Sten began.

"I am under orders, sir, to not discuss my assignment with anyone."

"I am not interested in discussing, Mason. This is not a de-Dating society. And I know that you've been told to bust Jochi.

"You can't do it."

"I have my orders, sir."

"Did you verify them? Mason, do you want to be the first man in—who the hell knows how long?—to wipe out a planet? Not everybody down there's loony, Mason."

The on-screen figure made no response.

"I see no point in continuing this transmission," Mason said finally, mechanically.