Throne of Stars (73 page)

“None of them meet the specifications,” Dobrescu said. “This is the only one in the area that will do. We’ll just have to get it fixed up. Fast.” He consulted his toot and frowned. “In . . . fourteen days.”

“That’s going to be . . . tough,” the young woman said.

“That’s why the boss sent me.” Dobrescu sighed.

Roger rolled over carefully, trying not to disturb Despreaux, and pressed the acceptance key on the flashing intercom.

“Mr. Chung,” Beach said. “We’ve exited tunnel-space in the Sol System, and we’re currently on course for the Mars Three checkpoint. We’ve gotten an updated download, including messages for you from your advance party on Old Earth.”

“Great,” Roger said quietly, keeping his voice down. “How long to orbit?”

“About thirteen hours, with the routing they gave us,” Beach replied with a frown. “We’re in a third-tier parking orbit, not far from L-3 position. Best I could get.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Roger lied, thinking about how long that meant with Patty on a shuttle. “I’ll go check the messages now.”

“Yes, Sir,” Beach said, and cut the connection.

“We’re there?” Despreaux asked, rolling over.

“In the system,” Roger replied. “Ten hours to parking orbit. I’m going to go see what Ritchie and . . .” He trailed off.

“Peterka,” Despreaux prompted.

“Peterka have to say.” He got to his feet and slipped on a robe.

“Well, I’m going back to sleep,” Despreaux said, rolling back over. “I have to be insane to marry an insomniac.”

“But a very cute insomniac,” Roger said as he turned on his console.

“And getting better in bed,” Despreaux said sleepily.

Roger looked at the messages and nodded in satisfaction.

“We got both buildings,” he said.

“Mm . . .”

“Good prices, too.”

“Mmmm . . .”

“The warehouse looks like it’s in pretty good shape.”

“Mmmmmmm!”

“The restaurant needs a lot of work, but he thinks it can be ready in time.”

“MMMMMMMMM!”

“Sorry. Are you trying to sleep?”

“Yes!”

Roger smiled and looked at the rest of the messages in silence. There were codes embedded in them, and he nodded in satisfaction as he scanned them. Things were going well. If anything, too well. But it was early in the game.

He checked out some other information sources, including a list of personal ads on sites dedicated to the male-friendly segment of society. His eyes lit at one, but then he read the signature and mail address and shook his head. Right message, wrong person.

He pulled out the schematic of the Palace again and frowned. All the surviving Marines, Eleanora, and his own memories had contributed to it, but he’d never realized how little of the Palace he actually
knew
. And the Marines, apparently deliberately, had never been shown certain areas. He knew of at least three semisecret passages in the warren of buildings, the Marines knew a couple of others, and he suspected that it was laced with them.

The original design had been started by Miranda MacClintock, and she’d been a terribly paranoid person. Successive designers had tried to outdo her, and what they’d created was something like the ancient Mycenaean labyrinth. He doubted that
anyone
knew all the secret passages, storerooms, armories, closets, and sewers. It covered in area which had once been home to a country’s executive mansion, capital buildings, a major park, two major war memorials, and various museums and government buildings. All of that area—nearly six square kilometers—was now simply “the Palace.” Including the circular park around it, grass only, with clear fields of fire. And there was talk of expanding it even further. Wouldn’t that be lovely? Homelike.

Finally, realizing he was working himself into a fret, he went back to bed and lay looking at the overhead. After several minutes, he nudged Despreaux.

“What do you mean I’m getting better?”

“
Mwuff?
You woke me up to ask me that and you expect me to
answer
?”

“Yeah. I’m your Prince, you’ve got to answer questions like that.”

“This whole plan is going to fail,” Despreaux said, never opening her eyes, “in about thirty seconds. When I strangle you with my bare hands.”

“What do you mean, ‘getting better’?”

“Look, good sex requires practice,” Despreaux said, shaking her head and still not turning over. “You haven’t had a lot of practice. You’re learning. That takes time.”

“So I need more practice?” Roger grinned. “No time like the present.”

“Roger, go to sleep.”

“Well, you said I needed practice—”

“Roger, if you ever want to be able to practice again, go to sleep.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m very sure.”

“Okay.”

“If you wake me up again, I’m going to kill you, Roger. Understand that.”

“I understand.”

“I’m serious.”

“I believe you.”

“Good.”

“So, there’s no chance—?”

“One . . .”

“I’ll be good.” Roger crossed his arms behind his head and smiled at the overhead. “Going to sleep now.”

“Two . . .”

“Grawwwkkkkkk.”

“Roger!?”

“What? Is it
my
fault I can’t sleep without snoring?” he asked innocently. “It’s not like I’m doing it on
purpose
.”

“God, why me?”

“You asked for it.”

“Did not!” Despreaux sat up and hit him with a pillow. “
Liar!
”

“God, you’re beautiful when you’re angry. I don’t suppose—?”

“If that’s what it takes for me to get some
sleep
,” Despreaux said half-desperately.

“I’m sorry.” Roger shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave you alone.”

“Roger, if you really are serious—”

“I’ll leave you alone,” he promised. “Get some sleep. I’ll be good. I need to think anyway. And I can’t think with that lovely nipple staring at me.”

“Okay,” Despreaux said, and rolled over.

Roger lay back, looking at the overhead. After a while, as he listened to Despreaux’s breathing
not
changing to the regular rhythm of sleep, he began counting in his head.

“I can’t sleep,” Despreaux announced, sitting up abruptly just before he reached seventy-one.

“I said I was sorry,” he replied.

“I know, but you’re going to lie there, not sleeping, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I don’t need much sleep. It doesn’t bother me. I’ll get up and leave you alone, if you want.”

“No,” Despreaux said. “Maybe it’s time for the next practice session. If you’ve learned anything, at least
I’ll
get some sleep.”

“If you’re sure . . .”

“Roger, Your Highness, my Prince, my darling?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

“Old Earth,” Roger breathed.

The ship was currently looking at the dark side of the planet. Relatively dark, that was. All of the continents were lit, almost from end to end, and a sparkling necklace of lights even covered the center of the oceans, where the Oceania ship-cities floated.

“Have you been here before, Mr. Chung?” the communications tech asked.

“Once or twice,” Roger replied dryly. “Actually, I lived here for a number of years. I started off in intra-system brokerage right here in the Sol System. I was born on Mars, but Old Earth still feels more like home. How long to insertion?”

“Coming up on parking orbit . . . now,” Beach said.

“Time to get to work, then,” Roger replied.

“You look like you didn’t get much sleep last night, Shara,” Dobrescu observed brightly.

“Oh, shut up!”

“What’s the status on the buildings?” Roger asked. Dobrescu had come up in a rented shuttle for a personal report and a quiet chat.

“The warehouse is fine; needs some cleanup, but I figured we had enough hands for that,” Dobrescu said in a more serious tone. “The restaurant is going to need a few more days for renovations and inspections. I found out who to slide the baksheesh to on the latter, and they’ll get done as soon as we’re ready. There’s a bit of another problem I couldn’t handle on the restaurant, though.”

“Oh?” Roger arched an eyebrow.

“The area’s a real pit. Getting better, but still quite a bit of crime, and one of the local gangs has been trying to shake down the renovation teams. I had a talk with them, but they’re not inclined to be reasonable. Lots of comments about what a fire-trap the building is.”

“So do we pay them off or ‘reason’ with them?” Despreaux asked.

“I’m not sure they could guarantee our security even if we paid,” Dobrescu admitted. “They don’t control their turf that way. But I’m afraid if we got busy with them, it would be a corpse matter, and that could be a problem. The cops will look the other way on a little tussling, but they get sticky if bodies start turning up.”

“The genius is in the details,” Roger observed. “We’ll try the famed MacClintock diplomacy gene and see if they’re amenable to reason.”

“It’s going to be a really nice restaurant,” Roger said as Erkum picked up one of the three-meter-long oak rafters in one false-hand and tossed it to a pair of Diasprans on the roof.

The building’s front yard was being cleared by more of the Diaspran infantrymen. The local gang, whose leader was talking with Roger, eyed them warily from the street corner. There were about twice as many Mardukans in sight as gang members. The gang leader himself was as blond as Roger had been born, of medium height, with lanky hair that fell to his shoulders and holographic tattoos on arms and face.

“Well, in that case, I don’t see why you can’t afford a very reasonable—” he started to say.

“Because we don’t know you can deliver,” Roger snapped. “You can make all the comments you like about how inflammable this place is. I don’t really give a good goddamn. If there’s a suspicious fire, then my boys—many of whom are going to be living here—are going to be out of work. And they’re not going to be really happy about that. I’d
appreciate
an ‘insurance plan,’ but the plan would have to cover security for my guests. I don’t want one damned addict, one damned hooker, or one damned dealer in sight of the restaurant. No muggings. Better than having a platoon of cops. Guarantee me that, and we have a deal. Keep muttering about how this place would go up in an instant, and we’ll just have to . . . What is that street term? Oh, yes. We’ll just have to ‘get busy.’ You really don’t want to get busy with me. You really, really don’t.”

“I don’t like getting it stuck in any more than the next guy,” the gang leader said, his eyes belying the statement. “But I’ve got my rep to consider.”

“Fine, you’ll be paid. But understand this. I’m paying you for
protection
, and I’d better receive it.”

“That’s my point,” the leader said. “I’m not a welcome wagon. My boys ain’t your rent-a-cops.”

“Cord,” Roger said. “Sword.”

The Mardukan, who had, as always, been following Roger, took the case off his back and opened it.

Roger pulled out the long, curved blade, its metal worked into the wavery marks of watered steel.

“Pedi,” he said. “Demonstration.”

Cord’s wife—who, as always, was following
him
about—picked up one of the metal rods being used for reinforcement of the new foundation work. She held it out, and Roger took the sword in his left hand and, without looking at the bar, cut off a meter-long section with a single metallic “twang.”

“The local cops are right down on guns,” Roger said, handing the sword back to Cord. “Sensors everywhere to detect them. You use guns much, Mr. Tenku?”

“It’s just Tenku,” the gang leader said, his face hard. He didn’t answer the question, but he didn’t have to. What his answer would have been was plain on his face, and in the glance he cast at the environment-suited Cord, who’d closed the case once more and gone back to leaning on the long pole that might, in certain circles, have been called a three-meter quarterstaff.

“You see them?” Roger pointed at the Diasprans who were picking up the yard. “Those guys are Diaspran infantry. They’re born with a pike in their hands. For your information, that’s a long spear. The Vasin cavalry who will be joining us shortly are born with
swords
in their hands. All
four
hands. Swords and spears aren’t well-liked by the cops, but we’re going to have them as ‘cultural artifacts’ to go with the theme of the restaurant. Mr. Tenku, if we ‘get it stuck in’ as you put it, then you are—literally—going to be chopped to pieces. I wouldn’t even need the Mardukans.
I
could go through your entire gang like croton oil; I’ve done it before. Or, alternatively, you and your fellows could do a small community service and get paid for it. Handsomely, I might add.”

“I thought this was a restaurant?” the gang leader said suspiciously.

“And I thought you were the welcome wagon.” Roger snorted in exasperation. “Open your
eyes
, Tenku. I’m not muscling your turf. So don’t try to muscle mine. Among other things, I’ve got more muscle.”
And more brains
, Roger didn’t add.

“How handsomely?” Tenku asked, still suspicious.

“Five hundred credits a week.”

“No way!” Tenku retorted. “Five
thousand
, maybe.”

“Impossible,” Roger snapped. “I have to make a profit out of this place. Seven hundred, max.”

“Why don’t I believe that? Forty-five hundred.”

They settled on eighteen hundred a week.

“If one of my guests gets so much as panhandled . . .”

“It’ll be taken care of,” Tenku replied. “And if you’re late . . .”

“Then come on by for a meal,” Roger said, “and we’ll square up. And wear a tie.”

Thomas Catrone, Sergeant Major, IMC, retired, president and chief bottle washer of Firecat, LLC, was clearing off his mail—deleting all the junk, in other words—when his communicator chimed.

Catrone was a tall man, with gray hair in a conservative cut and blue eyes, who weighed just a few kilos over what he’d weighed when he joined the Imperial Marines lo these many eons ago. He was well over a hundred and twenty, and not nearly the hulking brute he’d once been. But he was still in pretty decent shape. Pretty decent.

He flicked on the com hologram and nodded at the talking head that popped out. Nice blonde. Good face. Just enough showing to see she was pretty well stacked. Probably an avatar.