The Return of the Emperor (37 page)

So somebody had shot a picture—looked as if he was either a free-lancer or a citizen—of the bastards. The cop was headed for him to try to grab the pic. Good thing the photog was wearing' track shoes or was bigger'n the cop, Sten thought.

Now. What was it?

He read the caption.

Some kind of sporting event. Gravball? Whatever that was. Sten had about as much interest in athletics as he did in watching rocks grow. He had suffered through the obligatory games in the service, rationalizing them as part of the necessary physical conditioning. This was the Rangers against something called the Blues. Teams. The Blues were offworld, the Rangers from Prime. Big match—a hundred thousand people, including privy council to watch…

Game played at Lovett Arena.

Oh clottin' really.

Sten did not know how many of the privy council were sports freaks. Not that it mattered. This was the
only
occasion he had been able to find, both in the library and in Haines's records, where the council had assembled on more or less neutral ground to "enjoy" a nonwork-related event.

He noted the date and shut down.

"Clottin' impossible to understand, this politics," he confided to the librarian. "Grab a bite, an' spend the rest of the day readin' sports. Pick up a few coins bettin' at th' bar."

The thug grunted. He didn't care.

Sten could have found a secure com and checked with Haines. He thought it better not to. He probably should have just pulled out and let Haines's police fingers do the rest of the walking. But he was finally on to something. Damned if he was going to let somebody else find the gold from his lead.

He did not eat a midday meal, however. He kept the library's entrance under watch, just in case the goon was
really
looking for brownie points. Nothing.

He came back, deliberately belched in the goon's direction, and went to his terminal.

SPORTS
.
RANGERS
,
HISTORY
.

Nothing. He jumped ahead to the date of that big match. Blues undefeated three years… Rangers won… big riots as usual. Nothing. At least nothing he could see that tied the event to any councilman.

He was getting closer.

Lovett Arena.

He was sweaty-palmed. Another tracer, and that goon might not listen to any explanations. How do you winkle in? Try… and his fingers touched the keyboard.
AMPHITHEATERS.
CURRENT
.
ENTER.

He was not watching the screen; he kept his eye on the security man across the huge chamber. The man did not move.

No… no… damn, but these people on Prime have got a lot of sports palaces. Lovett Arena.

History?

Try it. Built by Lovett's grandsire… equipped for every kind of sport conceivable, land, water, or aerial. Lions vs. Christians, Sten wondered. PICS.

He looked at picture after picture, ignoring whatever was in the foreground and what was happening. He was looking at the arena itself.

Clot. If those bastards were going to conspire… no. Everything was too open. But wait a minute—that was interesting,
ENTIRE ENTRY
:

BEHIND THE CHEERS:

How a Stadium Keeps You Fed,

Warm, Safe, and Entertained.

Clottin' poor title.

Parking… underground… security offices… my.

So Lovett's grandfather built himself a private suite, did he? Clottin' awful-looking. Why would anybody hang the heads of dead animals on a wall? Let alone those paintings. But what a wonderful place for a conspiracy to meet. The big game as cover… bigwigs like sports, especially if they get private seats… privacy.

Sten had proof—enough for him—that there
had
been a final meeting before Chapelle was put into play. How could he get backup, enough to take to the Tribunal? Mucketies needed servants when they played. Were there bartenders who had been around that night? Joygirls? Boys? Maybe barkeeps. But not sex toys—not even the Kraas would be that careless.

What else? He punched out of
SPORTS
, and took a chance on
WHO'S WHO
. He entered
LOVETT
.

His attention was fixed on the screen. Usual plaudits. Educational bg… interests… entered family banking empire on death of mother… Hmm. No entry… even in this jerk-off log of him being a sports loon.

Sten's concentration was broken as the library's door banged closed. Damn!

Three uniformed cops entered.

Sten crouched away from the terminal and down an aisle with stacked fiche on either side to a door.

It was locked. His fingers went into a fob pocket and came out with a small tool. Seconds later, the door was unlocked.

He went through the door and relocked it behind him. He heard a shout from the reading room.

Sten, even as he looked for an exit, blinked. This was one hell of a library. Huge vaulted ceiling. Row after row after row of stored fiche, vids, and even books.

He heard fumbling at the door and shouts to get the key. A body thudded against the door.

Sten's fingers curled, and his knife dropped from its sheath inside his forearm into his hand. He ran down into the stacks, loping easily like a tiger looking for an ambush site.

The cops, the security tech in front, got the door open and came into the chamber.

They saw nothing except a couple of robots filing material. They heard nothing. The security man whispered orders: Spread out. Search the whole room.

The cops started to obey perfunctorily. Clot, there they were, wasting time because some clottin' piece of drakh counterspook sees shadows on the wall and wanted them to bust the cops of some private puke. Then the reaction hit them. Maybe private puke—but one who could somehow go through a locked door.

"We'll stay together."

Two of them took out their guns. The third had a truncheon ready. '

"You first, hero."

A tiny, lethal-looking projectile gun appeared in the secret policeman's hand.

They went into the tiger's jungle.

Suddenly a tall case teetered and crashed sideways. The teeter gave one cop and the security thug time to flat-dive out of the way. The other two were caught by the heavy case and its cascading contents. The first case brought a second one across from it slamming down. They floundered and shouted. Somebody fired a round that whined up into the library's ceiling and ricocheted wildly.

There was a scuffle as the "tiger's" pads moved him away, deeper into the stacks.

The two went on, leaving their trapped partners to work their own way free.

One of the trapped cops was wedging his way through a snowstorm of papers, his leg still caught under the case, when he heard a quiet thunk… and the whiny scratch of somebody trying to take his last breath through a crushed windpipe.

Then there was a sliver of death at his throat. "Scream," Sten ordered. "Real loud."

The cop followed orders.

The scream was still echoing as Sten slit the man's throat, came up, and darted into another row.

The security goon and the surviving policeman ran up. They had a second for a shocked gape at the two corpses and the gouts of blood before shock turned into horror and a metal-bound folio discused in from nowhere, smashing into the cop's forehead. He collapsed bonelessly.

The security man went for the door, backing… whirling… trying to keep from screeching in horror and running into what he knew would be the tiger's final trap.

A fiche clattered on the floor. He spun—nothing. Then he whirled back, gun hand out. Sten stepped in behind him. The goon went limp as Sten severed his spinal cord. He let the body fall. Two flops and it was a corpse.

Now Sten had all the time in the world.

He found an exit and, nearby, an employee's washroom. He swabbed solvent, and the mustache came off into the disposal; and the makeup was scrubbed clean.

Then he went out the door.

Police gravsleds were howling toward the library. Sten trotted down an alley, then slowed. He strolled onward, glancing curiously as the official units whined past.

Just another citizen of Prime.

CHAPTER THIRTY

"
John Stuart Mill
, this is New River Central Control. We have you on-screen. Do you wish landing instructions?"

Mahoney's pilot keyed a mike. "New River Control, this is the
Mill
. Negative on that. Landing permission established at Private Port November Alpha Uniform. Will switch frequencies. Over."

"This is New River. I have your fiche on-screen. Switch to UHF 223.7 for contact with November Alpha Uniform. November Alpha will provide locator only, no control personnel at port. New River Control, clear."

The pilot swiveled his chair. "Five minutes, sir."

Mahoney nodded and keyed the intercom mike to the crew compartment. His ship was a barely camouflaged covert insert craft, renamed for the moment after an old Earth economist. Mahoney thought it a nice addition to the cover he was using.

The screen lit and showed ten beings, armed and wearing Mantis Team tropo-camouflage uniforms. All of them were not only ex-Mantis but soldiers Mahoney had used for missions back when he commanded Mercury Corps.

"We'll be down in about five, Ellen," he told the burly ex-noncom in the compartment.

"We heard, boss. Sure you want us to just stand by? We could have him out by his boot heels in a couple minutes."

"Just stay in a holding pattern. Either he's who I want, in which case he might have more firepower'n we do, or he's not. Do me a favor? You hear shootin', scamper right on in. I'm getting too old for another body reconstruct."

"Yessir. We're ready."

Mahoney reached over the pilot's shoulder and picked up the com mike. "November Alpha Uniform, November Alpha Uniform. This is the
John Stuart Mill
, inbound for landing."

A voice answered. "
Mill
, this is November Alpha. Landing beacon triple-cast, apex two kilometers over field. No winds on field. Land as arranged. Potential client plus two others only. Any other crew remain in ship. Please observe these minimum safety precautions. I will meet you at the main house. Out."

Mahoney clicked the mike twice to indicate that he understood. He grinned at the pilot. "Please, eh? Perhaps he is my boy."

The ship set down in the center of the small, paved field. The port opened, and Mahoney climbed out.

It was hot, dry, and dusty. To one side of the field stretched scrub desert and then low mountains. On the other were vast stretches of white-fenced, very green pastures. The air was very still. Mahoney heard a bird-chirp from a nearby orchard, and, from the pastures, the hiss of irrigation equipment.

He walked up the winding road toward the scatter of buildings. Pasture… white fences… barns there. Chutes. A breeding establishment? He saw a very old quadruped—an Earth horse, he identified—grazing in a field. No other animals.

He walked past metal-sided sheds, their doors closed and bolted. Stables. Empty. There was a low wall, and a gate standing open.

He entered and walked through an elaborate garden that looked as if it had gone too long without enough maintenance. There were three robot gardeners at work, and a human near them. The man paid him no attention.

Hard times, Mahoney mused. It takes credit to keep a horse ranch going.

He was, however, impressed. He had seen no sign whatever of security devices, guards, or weaponry. But unless he was completely lost, they were there.

A man stood in front of the main entrance, waiting. He was a bit younger than Mahoney. Not as tall. Stocky. He looked as if he worked out on a fairly regular basis. Not an ugly man, not a handsome man. He wore an open-neck shirt, expensively casual pants, and sandals.

"Sr. Gideon," he greeted. "I am Schaemel. Please come in. I have refreshments."

The sprawling house—not quite a mansion—was decorated with heavy furniture made of real wood and leather. The paintings on the walls were old and all of realistic subjects.

"Each year," Schaemel observed, "I manage to forget how hot and dry New River is in late summer. And each year I am reminded. That is a wine-fruit concoction. It is refreshing." He indicated a punch bowl containing ice and a milky liquid. Mahoney made no response.

Schaemel half smiled. He ladled punch into a tumbler and drained it. Mahoney then got a drink for himself.

"So your corporation's getting whipsawed, Sr. Gideon. A hostile takeover on one side, a union organizing on the other, and you think the union's a setup. Everyone's playing dirty and you need an expert. Excellent presentation, by the way."

"Thank you."

"One thing I particularly admire," Schaemel continued, "is your attention to trivia. John Stuart Mill as the name for your yacht, indeed. Perhaps a bit too capitalistic—but nice, regardless."

Mahoney's hand brushed his pants pocket, and, back in the ship, the alert light went on.

"I'm very, very glad," Schaemel said, "that it was you who showed up. I have been waiting for some time for something like this—or something else.

"I certainly never believed the stories of your suicide, Fleet Marshal Mahoney… I believe that was your rank when you 'retired.' Spies suicide—not spy-masters."

"You are quick," Mahoney said. "So can we drop the 'Schaemel' drakh, Venloe?"

"I thought that identity was safely buried. But then, I thought
I
was, too."

Mahoney explained: how few real professionals there were; how fewer were not involved with a government, megacorporation, or military; and lastly Venloe's characteristic MO.

Venloe looked chagrined. "And all these years you think you never leave a trail. Tsk. I am ashamed. So how am I to make amends for having engineered the assassination of the Emperor?"

"You assume I'm not here to nail your guts to a tree and chase you around it half a dozen times. The Emperor was also my friend."

"So I have been told. And I have heard stories about you… preferring field work on occasion. But if you just wanted me dead, you would not have bothered to introduce yourself before the bangs began. Direct confrontations can produce contusions on both sides—and you are hardly a young hero any more."