Vortex (3 page)

"By haveen, th' Emp's slippin', allowin' all this formal dancin' by this crew of scrotumless ijiots! B'dam' if I'll take part in any such monkey dancin'. Tell th' Emp, if he wants—"

Whatever Whiskers was about to suggest for the Emperor was swiftly broken off as four very, very large humans slid out of nowhere and formed a mini-cordon around the man.

Sten heard more protests, but most smoothly the man was brought under control and guided—he was too large to be frogmarched—out a nearby exit.

The four men were wearing a new, police-type gray uniform that Sten could not recollect having seen around Prime or the palace before. He saw one of their shoulder tabs, a round black and gold patch with a gold
I
, and the letter
S
scrolled around it.

"Who were the eighty-sixers?" he wondered in that monotone to Mason.

"New security element. Internal Security. The limit of my knowledge or curiosity."

"Who are they organized under? Mercury? Mantis?" Sten's natural curiosity sprang from his former—at least officially—membership in both organizations.

"I say again my last…" Mason's voice was louder, frostier. "Goons, gestapos, and guessers have never been my province."

Sten found it polite to follow the ebb as awardees formed up, walked through the door, and vanished.

Hereditary orders… Meritorious orders… Decorations (military)… Decorations (civil)…

Sten stopped in front of the chamberlain, who consulted his list. "Sr. Plenipotentiary Sten, you will be the only being honored with this award today. You may enter."

Sten walked toward the high gaping doors, and two beings in those red suits—and, Sten thought, some kind of whitish artificial hair—opened the doors.

A voice blared: "The Most Honorable Sten… of Smallbridge."

The yawning Award Chamber was now filled with those who had already gone. Sten smoothed forward, at that slightly slower-than-normal pacing every diplomat learns that shows best on the livies. He formed a dignified expression on his face.

Most Honorable, he thought. Very interesting. As I recall, I was only Very Honorable the last time I was at court. Does Most Honorable give me a bigger paycheck?

"Ambassador Plenipotentiary Sten fulfilled the highest standards of the Imperial Service, at considerable risk to his own personal safety, in a recent mission to mediate between the Thorvaldians and the inhabitants of Markel Bat. Not only was peace preserved, but a new era of tranquillity was brought to the cluster. He is to be honored by being named to a new ranking, A Companion of the Emperor."

Which meant, Sten thought, whatever the Eternal Emperor wanted it to. Which was anything except an Imperial Privy Household Order—whatever
they
were. At least those obnoxious clots hadn't actually gotten around to killing each other. Nor had he found it necessary to kill any of them, tempting as it had been at times.

None of these thoughts appeared on Sten's face. Nor did his expression change as he walked toward that line, his eyes sweeping the huge chamber.

Up there… the iris in the chandelier… a tracking gun turret. That huge portrait—a one-way screen with a riot squad behind it, most likely. There, and there. At belt level. To either side of that line… hidden laser projectors.

On each side of the Awards Chamber's doors were paired Gurkhas. Quiet, small, brown men, faces blank, in dress uniform, their slouch hats' chin straps held just below their lower lips. And, holstered on one hip, each had a miniwillygun. On the other hip the lethal, slashing kukris that helped make the Gurkha the most feared and respected soldier in the Empire. Plus there were about ten more of those gray-clad Internal Security types scattered through the room.

So? Wouldn't you put on a little bit more security if some clot had gone and killed you a few years earlier?

A man stood alone just beyond that line.

The Eternal Emperor.

Dark hair. Blue eyes. Well muscled. He looked to be, at the oldest, in his mid-thirties. No, Sten corrected, his eyes made him out to be a bit older.

But certainly not old enough to be what he was—the man who for over a millennium had single-handedly built this Empire, the Empire that stretched beyond any beings' visualizations, the Empire that had almost been destroyed and now was being reassembled.

Sten came to rigid attention. The Emperor looked his personal envoy up and down, then nodded in formal approval.

The two Imperial aides—the one who had recited the citation, and the other, who was holding some kind of medal in an open, velvet case—stepped forward.

Then the Emperor broke tradition. He turned to the aide and took the award from its case.

He stepped close, looping the decoration over Sten's neck. "Forty-five minutes," the Eternal Emperor monotoned, in a prison whisper just as skilled as Sten's. "Backstairs… my chambers… we need a drink."

CHAPTER THREE

S
ten stepped onto the security grid. At the Internal Security officer's signal he offered his palm to the identification beam. The grid hummed into life, and Sten was bathed in a glow of colors. Somewhere in the bowels of Arundel a whole host of facts was collected: Sten was being analyzed by the most sophisticated snooping equipment in the Empire.

The first level was ID. As soon as Sten's palm print was checked and rechecked, his bio was being scanned for any potential animosity to the Emperor. That information was checked a third time against the latest Mercury Corps records, up to date within the past twenty-four hours.

The second was organic. His system was analyzed for any possible bacterial or viral threat to Sten's boss. It had been possible for a long time to build a living germ warfare bomb.

The final level was for weapons, from the obvious hide-out gun or blade, to the not so obvious surgically implanted explosive. Or, in Sten's case, the knife in his arm. He knew that when the scanners caught it, his authorization for bearing such a weapon in the Emperor's presence would override any alarm.

Sten got the okay, stepped off the grid, and headed along the corridor for the Emperor's quarters. He was feeling edgy about the upcoming conference with his boss. It had been a long time since the two of them had had a face-to-face. Something extra-important must be up.

But that wasn't what was bothering him. It was the supertight security that made him nervous—an odd thought from the man who had once headed up the Emperor's personal bodyguard. Then he had fretted at any lapse, worried at the Emperor's tendency to plunge off into crowds, or sneak away for a private adventure.

Sten didn't blame the Eternal Emperor for clamping down hard after what had happened. But now that he had gained a great deal of experience as a public man himself, Sten also knew it was dangerous for any being in authority to adopt a bunker mentality. The tighter the screen, the harder the job of the villain, admittedly. But it also could make it tough for the guys in the white hats.

And as for the Internal Security beings he had seen so far, Sten had picked up a bit of a skin crawl. Why, he couldn't say. The closer he got to the Emperor's presence, the more the IS personnel bothered him. They were all so… vaguely familiar.

When he saw the tall, fair young man at the door, Sten got it. The man was a twin of the Emperor—as were all the men he had seen since he had entered the Emperor's private apartments. The main physical difference was that they were taller.

He grudgingly admitted that this arrangement made good sense. Individually, the IS guards resembled the Emperor enough to draw any assassin's fire. And in a group around him, they were a living shield.

The IS officer clicked his boot heels together as Sten approached. "You are expected, Ambassador Sten," he said in soothing tones that were in odd contrast to his stone face. Suspicious eyes measured Sten. Compared. Sten was a little hurt to see the suspicion replaced with self-satisfaction. The clot thought he could take Sten with ease.

"You can go right in," the IS officer said.

Sten's muscles and reflexes tingled with memory, as he played his own measuring game. The man's eyes narrowed. He
knew
what was going on.

Sten laughed. "Thanks," was all he said. The door whisked open and he entered. He saw the startled look on the man's face as he realized his worth had been found sadly lacking. Sten could take him with ease. Sure, he was a little slower. Out of practice. But it would be no problem at all.

The stregg hit the Black Velvet, thought about making trouble, then was seduced by all that smoothness. Sten felt his belly warm to a cheery glow.

The Eternal Emperor beamed at him, then refilled the shot glasses with the fiery drink the Bhor had named after an ancient enemy. "As our old Irish friend Ian Mahoney says, 'This one's just to let the Good Lord know we're serious.' " The Emperor downed another shot.

Sten followed his lead. If the boss wanted the meeting to be boozy, then Sten had little choice but to participate—with feeling. Besides, the Eternal Emperor had been right. As usual. Sten really had needed a drink.

"Now, let's see about that dinner I promised you," the Emperor said. "Until further notice, Ambassador, you are in charge of keeping the glasses full."

He began bustling about that marvel of low-tech goodness married to high-tech speed he called his kitchen.

"A difficult duty, sir," Sten said, "but I will do my very best." He laughed, refilled their glasses, and carried them to the counter. He took his usual position perched on one of the tall stools.

Sten sniffed the air appreciatively. It was a mixture of vaguely familiar smells but with a tantalizing mystery to them. The Eternal Emperor could give a master chef lessons. Even Marr and Senn, the greatest banqueters in the Empire, grudged this.

The Emperor favored re-creating the recipes of ancient Earth.

Though from the Emperor's perspective, the recipes weren't so ancient, Sten thought. He had ruled for three thousand years.

Sten sniffed the air again. "Asian?" he guessed. He was no mean cook himself. He had picked up the hobby—inspired by his boss, perhaps—whiling away long hours at dreary military posts where the food was even duller than the company.

"You're only thinking that because it's complex," the Emperor said. "Although there are some influences, I guess. But the other way around. The Chinese
were
the best cooks. These folks, however, gave them a run for the money. Some people say they were even better. I go back and forth."

He palmed a spot at the counter's edge and a refrigerated shelf slid out, revealing an array of jars and pots of good stuff. He stacked them on the counter.

"The theme tonight is India," the Eternal Emperor said. "Sort of goes along with the job I've got in mind for you."

He smiled. Sten had seen his boss in friendly moods before, but never quite so downright jolly. Uh-oh. Another impossible task. Sten was only mildly bothered. The potential difficulty intrigued him. But he couldn't fold up too easily.

"Not to be contrary, sir," Sten said, sipping at his stregg, "but I was hoping for a little leave time." He saw a flicker of irritation on his boss's face. Good.

"Don't push it," the Eternal Emperor snapped. Sten was alarmed to see the irritation building to quick fury. "I'm sick and tired of negatives. Don't you people get it? I'm holding this thing together with spit and baling wire and…" The Emperor's voice trailed off.

Sten watched him bring the anger under control. It was a definite fight. The Emperor shook his head and gave Sten a sheepish grin.

"Sorry," he said. "Pressures of the job and all. Sometimes it makes me forget who my old friends are. My
real
friends." He toasted Sten and sipped his stregg.

"It was my fault, sir," Sten said. His instincts told him it was important to take the blame. "The smell of all that good food got to the lazy side of me."

The Emperor liked that. He gave a sharp, too-right nod, and went back to work—and the subject.

"My current pain in the ass," the Emperor said, "resembles the place this food comes from. Within the borders of India there were more people of more different opinions than just about any place on Earth. It was one mass of hate groups who had been at each other's throats so long they had forgotten about what pissed them off in the first place. I take that back. Actually, they remembered all too well.

"A Hindu or a Sikh could tell you to the day and the color of the sky what atrocity the other guy's great great-grandfather had committed."

He slid over a bowl filled with a greenish-looking mass. "It's dhal," the Emperor said. "A kind of a bean—or in this case, pea—dish. It's deliberately bland. To give balance to the rest. Clear the palate every bite or so. I made it up yesterday. All we have to do is reheat."

"About this problem child," Sten prodded.

"Right." The Emperor took a hit off his stregg. "I could have used another example besides India. But their food was mostly potatoes—and pig when they could get it. They made a helluva sausage, though. Wrapped in flour and fried. But I didn't feel like sausage."

Sten sniffed the ingredients the Emperor was assembling into some kind of order. "India will do just fine, sir," he said.

"The place I'm sending you is the Altaic Cluster," the Emperor said.

Sten frowned. He was only slightly familiar with the cluster. "The Jochians, among others, right? But, I thought they were among the best allies we have on board."

"They are," the Emperor said firmly. "And I want them to stay that way. Trouble is, the Khaqan—which is what the fellow who runs the joint calls himself—is up to his ass in alligators."

The Emperor held up a mound of cubed meat. About two pounds worth, Sten noted. "This is goat," the Emperor said. "I had a field constructed for him and his brothers and sisters. Had the field planted with the same stuff his ancestors ate in India—mint, wild onion, you name it." He plunked the mass into an ovenproof casserole.

"The Khaqan is getting old and a little past it," the Emperor went on in his typical veer back and forth between subjects. Except that over the years Sten had noted there really was no veer at all: Each topic always had something to do with the other.