Battlecry: Sten: Omnibus One (Sten Omnibus) (64 page)

Sten shifted the bulky file from one arm to another and stood patiently in the doorway to the work area. He watched with no little amazement as the Eternal Emperor bent low over the strange boxlike object held gently in his hands. The curled right fingers of his hand plucked at first cautiously at the strings, and then with more confidence.

He sang in a soft, husky voice:

One string buzzled against a fret and the Emperor broke off in frustration. ‘Clot!’

He slammed the instrument down with a loud bang and an echoing of stringed chords. He stared at the thing for a long moment and then kicked it over to a heap of similar objects. Then he spotted Sten. He frowned deeply, and then his face cleared. ‘Don’t
ever
try to build a guitar,’ he growled.

‘I wouldn’t dream of it, sir,’ Sten said as he walked into the work area.

He looked at the pile of discarded instruments and glanced around the room. Hung here and there were other attempts. Some were partially completed. Some consisted of just the cut-out backs. And scattered about were necks in a variety of sizes, drilled for rods. Sten sniffed at the evil-smelling smoke boiling from a pot of goo that was bubbling over an open fire.

‘Excuse me, sir, but what’s a guitar?’

‘A musical instrument,’ the Emperor said. ‘Or at least that’s what some devil called it when he invented the fretted thing.’

Sten nodded thoughtfully. ‘Oh, that’s what you were doing.’ He picked up one of the discarded guitars. And studied it. He peered past the strings and inside the hole.

‘I don’t see any circuitry. How do you make it work?’

‘With great bleeding difficulty,’ the Emperor said. He rose and pulled one of the blank backs from its wall hook. Then he sat again and laid it across his knees. ‘Hand me the sandpaper.’

Sten looked around, wondering what his boss meant. Then he connected: Sand. Rough. Some kind of abrasive. He reached down to the litter on the floor and picked up something that he believed would fit the requirements.

‘It’s all in the inside shape,’ the Emperor said. ‘Something to do with how the sound bounces against the box. Trouble is, nobody was very scientific about it back in those days.’ He took the sandpaper from Sten and began polishing inside the box.

‘They did it to taste,’ the Emperor went on. ‘So much here …’ He rubbed along one curving line. ‘So much there …’ He began sanding at the brace of the strut itself, smoothing and removing spots of what appeared to be glue.

In sudden disgust, the Emperor set the thing down on the floor. Sten saw, however, that this time he was careful to place it on a thick rug. The Emperor noticed where he was looking.

‘Lebanese,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘Two square yards from said folk. You don’t even want to know what it cost.’

He looked up at Sten. ‘Okay,’ he finally said. ‘You want a safe place to talk. This is it.’ He swept his hand around the workshop, crammed with antique tools and materials. ‘This is the most secure place I know of. I have it swept daily.’

Sten smiled thinly. He picked up the thick file folder and slid out a small, slender device. ‘And I just swept it again, sir,’ he said, showing him the debugging device.

The Emperor looked at him. ‘And?’

Sten picked up the guitar that the Emperor had recently dismissed as poor quality. He shook his head.

‘Maybe that’s what made the, uh, guitar buzz,’ he said. ‘Sorry about that, Your Highness.’

The Eternal Emperor thought for a moment, considering whether he ought to get mad. After a while, he grinned at Sten. Then he grabbed a pair of tongs, lifted up the pot of evil-smelling goo, and dabbed it on the guitar with a brush.

He looked up at Sten. ‘Well?’

Sten checked his snooper, and then shook his head. ‘Clean.’ Then he opened the remainder of the file and palmed its contents across the desk in a gambler’s swirl. ‘Are you ready, sir?’ Sten asked.

The Emperor studied him. ‘You mean am I through clotting around?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Sten said.

The Emperor picked up the unfinished guitar body again and started stroking its sides. ‘Go.’

Sten pulled out a photograph – a still taken from the brainscan room. ‘That’s our boy,’ he said.

The Emperor studied the picture of Knox. ‘Mr. Big,’ he said dryly.

‘If by that you mean the main fellow behind this thing no, sir, I don’t think so. He was merely Dynsman’s control. Fortunately for us, he wasn’t satisfied with just that role.’ Sten handed over another photo.

The Emperor peered down to see a tight shot of Knox’s ring hand. He caught the emblem instantly. ‘Mercury Corps!’

‘Yes, sir. Not only that, we know for a fact that this man – call him Knox for the moment – was a doctor. That means he was probably a Mercury Corps trained medico.’

‘Former or current?’

‘Hopefully, former. We don’t know. I’ve got Lieutenant Haines checking on it.’

Sten ran down for a second, watching the Emperor sitting very quietly, rubbing the abrasive against the wood. The Emperor reached into a slit pocket and pulled out a small object. Sten peered forward. The object appeared to be made of metal, and forked. His boss shifted the object around in his hand and then gently tapped it against the side of the instrument. A low, muted tone
thum
ed … for many heartbeats. The Emperor pressed it against his cheek, quieting it.

‘The harmony,’ he said, ‘still isn’t right. Go on, Captain.’

Sten took a deep breath. What he had to say next was putting him on very dangerous ground. ‘May I speak freely, sir?’ Sten asked, knowing it for a fool question. No one should ever speak freely to a superior. But it was a chance he had to take.

‘GA.’

‘A large piece of this puzzle is missing. Right from the middle.’

‘What do you need to find it?’

‘An honest answer.’

‘Someone is holding back?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The Emperor had caught the point long ago. Still, he liked to play things out.

‘Would that someone be me?’

‘I’m afraid so, sir.’

‘Ask away,’ the Emperor said, his face strangely softening.

Sten sighed.

‘Thank you, sir. But let me lay the rest of this thing out first. Then I’ll ask.’

‘Okay, we’ll do it your way. But hand me the glue.’

Sten puzzled at him, and then realized the Emperor was pointing at the evil-smelling pot. Sten picked it up and handed it to the boss.

The Emperor reached over to a dusty shelf and slid out a small wood-handled brush. He let it float on top of the goo pot and reached down between his legs for the top of the guitar. He thumped it with his knuckles. Then he scraped the tuning fork across it, listening intently for the humming sound. He nodded with satisfaction. ‘This one might be right.’

Then he dipped the brush deeply into the hot mixture at his feet and began brushing the goo along the ridges of the guitar’s shoe.

‘To start with,’ Sten said, ‘there was some kind of code phrase that seemed to trigger the bombing. Dynsman’s vital functions jumped about twelve beats every time we mind-scrolled it back.’

‘Which was?’

The Emperor listened closely as he continued working. He fit the top of the guitar to its box and then clamped it into place.

Sten glanced at his notes. ‘Raschid,’ he said. ‘The action was supposed to begin when someone used the name Raschid. To be exact, the phrase was Engineer Raschid.’

Sten didn’t notice the Emperor’s face cloud over in anger. ‘Go on,’ he prodded, almost in a whisper.

‘Then there was Booth C,’ Sten said. ‘Dynsman was supposed to trigger the time bomb when he next heard someone ask for Booth C.’

‘Stop,’ the Emperor said. He said it quietly, it was as clear a command as Sten had ever heard. ‘So I killed her,’ the Emperor said to himself. ‘It was me.’

‘Sir?’

By way of an answer, the Emperor pulled a bottle from underneath his stool. He took a long shuddering drink and then handed it to Sten.

Sten just waited, staring at him. If there was any way of getting
through to this man, Eternal Emperor or not Sten was hoping it was then. ‘Engineer Raschid?’ the Emperor said. ‘Yeah. That’s me. One of my many disguises, Captain. When I like to get down among them.’

It all came together for Sten after that admission. ‘Then sir, it follows that you were the target. It had nothing to do with Godfrey Alain. Or the emissary who went to meet him in your place.’

The Emperor smiled a sad smile. ‘Yeah. He was supposed to identify himself as Engineer Raschid. Instead of the bar, they were supposed to ask Janiz for Booth C.’

‘Janiz?’ Sten asked. ‘Who was Janiz?’

The Emperor just waved him on. So Sten continued linking the chain of evidence together.

‘Fine. So here was how it was supposed to go. Dynsman had the bomb set up at Booth C. It was shaped to destroy the bar, but only stun its key occupant. Meaning you. The rest is easy. The ambulance was supposed to take you to Dr. Knox.’

‘And then they figured I’d be in their control,’ the Emperor said. ‘Dumb clots. It’s been tried.’

He started to take a sip from the bottle, then shook his head, corked it, and shoved it under his stool. ‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘I don’t like myself. You ever feel that way?’

Sten figured it was better to ignore this and just press on. ‘Sir,’ he said as carefully as possible, ‘it seems to me that the Tahn have got clot all to do with this. Somebody – probably one of your own people – wants to replace you as Emperor. The Tahn just got dragged into it because of Alain.’

He waited for a response, but the Emperor remained silent, thinking his own thoughts. Sten decided that it was time to ask the key question. ‘Who was she, sir?’

The Emperor raised his old/young eyes. ‘Janiz,’ he said. ‘Just Janiz. We used to be lovers. Quite a few years ago. When I was feeling … who the clot cares how I felt.

‘I told her a few stories. About what a badass I was. How rich I was gonna be. And she … she … Hell, son, she listened to me.’

‘But you were the Emperor,’ Sten said softly.

The Emperor shook his head, no. ‘I was Engineer Raschid,’ he said. ‘A bully dreamer. A liar. Hell, she believed me. I used to roll into town pretty regular – every year or two. Then I kept promoting myself. And then it was Captain Raschid, ma’am. Captain Raschid.’

‘But that was a long time ago,’ Sten guessed.

The Eternal Emperor nodded. ‘We stopped being lovers. But we
stayed friends. I put up the credits for the bar. I was to be a very silent partner. Except for Booth C. I had her keep that just for me, or people I sent there. I had the best anti-snooping equipment in my Empire installed.

‘Godfrey Alain wasn’t the first covert meet I set up there. Strange what you make of old lovers.’

He thought for a long moment and then pulled the bottle out from under his feet. He took a small drink to clear his head. ‘What is your advice, Captain?’

Sten rose to his feet. ‘We know there’s a leak, sir.’ He began pacing. ‘We have to shut down everything. Someone, sir, is very definitely trying to kill you.’

The Emperor smiled an odd smile. He started to speak but kept it to himself. Sten wished to God he had said what was on his mind. What was he still hiding?

‘Okay. You are the target. We don’t know how many conspirators there are. So we trust no one. I follow the Knox trail. And, you, sir …’

‘Yes, Captain? What exactly do you propose I do?’

Sten caught himself, and wondered if he had gone too far.

The Emperor raised several fingers in a mock salute. ‘Don’t worry about me, Captain,’ he said. ‘I’ll be perfectly safe. Although sometimes I wish …’ The Eternal Emperor picked up his last discarded guitar. He bent low over it and began fingering out a complicated string of chords.

Even to Sten’s untrained ear, it sounded pretty good. It also sounded like a final dismissal.

Kai Hakone ground his palms together and the tabac leaves shredded down onto the leaf below. Carefully he sprinkled water onto the leaf, then rolled the leaf around the shreds, folding the ends in on the roll. He finished, inspected the cheroot with satisfaction, then dipped it in the nearly full snifter of Earth cognac before him. Satisfied, he clipped the end and, using a wooden firestick, lit the cheroot and leaned back, looking across the chamber. It was a private room in one of Prime World’s most exclusive clubs, where it was very easy for Hakone’s fellows to meet, and for Hakone to keep free of monitoring devices.

The other men in the room – perhaps fifty – were Hakone’s age or older. Industrialists, retired high-rankers, entrepreneurs with laurels to rest on. To an outsider, they reeked of wealth. To Hakone, they smelled like death.

But to Kai Hakone, that nostril-scorching scent like lamb, like burnt pork, was the smell of his life, and his writing.

Some people are formed by a single experience.

Such was Kai Hakone.

Almost from birth he had wanted to fly. To fly in space. The world he was born on was comfortably settled, as were his parents. His mother had one great idea – that it would be possible to establish a store where persons could walk in, fit themselves into a booth for measurement, then pick a pattern and, within minutes, have a custom-tailored garment. That idea made the Hakones very wealthy and very satisfied.

They had no understanding – but also no disagreement – with their son’s desire to go out; and so Kai Hakone ended up commissioned as a lieutenant in command of a probe vessel at the start of the Mueller Wars.

Hakone had taken all the lessons of the Academy to heart and was earnestly trying to lead, inspire, and be an authoritarian friend to the thirty-eight men on the tiny ship. But his probe ship was picked for close-in support of the landing on Saragossa. Five Imperial battlewagons died that day, as did most of the Seventh Guards Division committed on the troopships. Among the million dead spewed into lung-spilling space or endlessly falling onto a rock-hard planet, were the men and women of Hakone’s ship.

His probe ship had died slowly, cut to ribbons by missiles, close-range lasers, and finally projectile-blast guns. Lieutenant Kai Hakone was the only survivor. He’d been dug out of the ruins of the ship and slowly psyched back together.

After the Mueller Wars ground down, the Emperor found it very convenient to allow anyone in the Imperial Service who wanted out, out. Kai Hakone found himself a young civilian, with a more-than-adequate separation allowance, no desire to return to his home world, and the reek of death in his nostrils.

That reek had led him to his current career as a writer.

His first vid-book – a novel on the rites-of-passage-via-slaughter – bombed. His second, a sober analysis of the Mueller Wars, became a best-seller, being published ten years after the war ended, just at the correct time for a revisionist appraisal. Since then, Hakone’s works, all grim, all tinged with the skull, were received and reviewed as coming from a major creative artist.

His sixth volume, a return to nonfiction, soberly analyzed what went wrong at the battle of Saragossa, taking the scandalous viewpoint that the young admiral-in-place was a scapegoat for the Emperor’s own failings. The work was, of course, cleverly worded to avoid any semblance of political libel.

But that, Hakone realized, was another turning point. That was the reason he was sitting in a rich man’s club, smelling rich men’s lives and feeling like a spectre at the banquet. But Hakone shut that thought off, much as he closed off the perpetual wonderment of what would have happened to Kai Hakone had the battle of Saragossa been an Imperial triumph.

He clicked fingernails against the table for attention, and the room fell silent.

Again he looked around at the fifty-odd men in the room. If Hakone were brighter, or more analytical, he might have wondered why none of the former military people had rank above one-star, why the industrialists were all people who had inherited their businesses from their forebears, and why the entrepreneurs were those
who hustled borderline deals. But the nature of conspiracy is not to question.

‘Gentlemen,’ he began, his quiet voice a contradiction to his bear-like presence. ‘Before we begin, let me advise you that this room has been proofed against any known electronic eavesdropping, as well as any physical pickups. We are able to speak freely.’

A man stood. Hakone identified him as Saw Toyer, who’d increased his riches supplying uniforms for the Guard.

‘Time has passed, Sr. Hakone,’ he accused. ‘We – and I think I speak for us all – have given more than generously. We expected … something to happen following Empire Day. As you promised. Instead, and I am not asking to be privy to the secrets, nothing has occurred. At least nothing which we can see.

‘Were I not committed, I might ask if my credits are being poured into a black hole.’

‘That is the purpose of the meeting,’ Hakone answered. ‘To inform you of what has happened.’

Hakone could have gone into detail: that the attempt to shock and then kidnap the Emperor had gone awry. That the assassin had successfully fled Prime World. That his control and their operative doctor, Har Stynburn – ‘Dr. Knox’ – had disappeared. But that as far as Hakone knew, the dangling tails of that conspiracy had either been cleaned up – such as the murder of Tac Chief Kreuger – or had cleaned themselves up. But he knew that the secret to success is never to worry the money-men with minor problems.

‘Phase One, as you’ve said, went awry. But, you’ll notice, without any suspicion on the part of the Emperor, other than his assigning one of his personal soldiers to investigate. As guaranteed, we left no traces.

‘There is one problem, however. And that is that our normal source of intelligence has gone dry. We no longer have input to the Emperor’s next moves.’

Hakone swizzled his cheroot in the cognac and relit the cigar, waiting for the buzz of dismay to die. Gutless. Gutless, he thought. These men have never learned that there is always one more kilometer that you must go. So, his optimistic side answered, you learned long ago that you run with what you brought.

Hakone tapped for silence again. The buzz was louder as fear grew in the room. Hakone wetted a finger in the cognac and began moving it around the rim of the glass. The high whine silenced the throng.

‘Thank you,’ Hakone said. ‘What is past is past. Now for the good news. Our coordinator is most pleased with what is going on.’

‘Why?’ The snarl was unidentifiable.

‘Because in spite of our actions, and in spite of Imperial motion, there have been no breaks.’

‘So what do we do next – find holes and pull ’em in after ourselves?’ That came from Ban Lucery, one of the few industrialists Hakone respected.

‘That is a firm negative. Our coordinator – and I heartily agree with his decision – has said that we move to Phase Two of what we’ve dubbed Operation Zaarah Wahrid. Relax, gentlemen. The days of this intolerable Imperial control are numbered. There is no way Phase Two can fail.’