The Court of a Thousand Suns (25 page)

Sten counted six men in the sled, which was closing on him at a rate of about 60 kph. He decided to make their job a little easier, and slowed his own sled. The sled behind also slowed.

Tacmind thinking, Sten automated: They are trying to track me. Given mission: Find the safe house and…

six men in that sled… take me out.

Sten
tsked
to himself and snapped the double safety harness around him.

He shoved the control stick forward for full-speed and snapped the built-in dopplering radar off. On normal combat cars, this was permanently on, insuring that no matter how much an idiot the pilot was, he could not run into something in fog, smoke, rain, or drunkenness. But Sten's car
was
a modified one.

Another modification went on, a second, also doppler-stupid radar. It fixed on the platoon gravsled coming up on Sten, giving a closing speed of nearly 80 kph. Very slow reactions, Sten decided.

Before the pilot of the sled realized what was intended, Sten chopped the control stick, then lifted the stick into control attitude and yanked it back again, almost into his lap. Standard combat cars—gravsleds—had no such capability. Which may have been the reason that the pursuing pilot gaped as Sten's sled curved straight up and around in a perfect Immelman, then dropped directly toward the pursuers.

Sten saw fear, panic, and motion as he dove straight for the other sled. The platoon sled's pilot cut power and sank, barely in time to avoid Sten's seemingly kamikaze dive.

It banked and recovered. Doors on the smooth side of the vehicle opened, and missile banks whirred into sight. Fire, smoke, and four air-to-air (atmo) missiles blasted out.

Sten already had his combat car on its back. As G-forces yanked at his face, his hands clawed for the distress flare button.

The flares bloomed out, multicolored phosphorus fires. And, obediently, the pursuers' heat-seeking missiles homed on the flares. Four missiles impacting at the same time made a helluva bang, enough to send the platoon sled skidding out of control momentarily, the five passengers grabbing for handholds.

And then out of the smoke dove Sten's combat car. The platoon sled's pilot panicked and pirouetted his sled on its own axis. Again late, since Sten's car was now just above him.

And then the last thing the six thugs in the sled might have expected happened. Sten flipped his combat car to orbit, unsnapped his safety harness, and jumped straight over the side, into the other gravsled.

He twisted in midair, his clawed hand bringing out his knife, while his mind looked for a soft landing.

The landing was on the first man, Sten's heels crushing his rib cage and Sten going down to his knees—under the clubbed willygun swing of the second man—and then straight up, spread fingers going into eyeballs and brain.

Sten whirled as the second corpse fell. His knife swung across the wrist of the third man, whose hand fell away, blood hosing across the sled. He gaped at the spouting blood, stumbled, and fell away into nothingness.

Sten never saw that he was on automatic pilot, realizing a man was swinging a long, issue Guards combat knife at him. Sten blocked with his own crystal blade—and sheared through the alloy steel. The fourth man didn't even have time to react before Sten's steel bootheel slammed up, crushing his skull.

Air ionized, and Sten went flat, skidding across the checkered metal of the aircar's deck, the willygun projectile sizzling overhead, and Sten was diving forward, and his foot went out from under him as he skidded on a patch of blood.

Sten took the fall, but his knife hand lashed out, braced at the wrist. The speared knife caught the fifth man just below the belt, then slashed through his spinal cord. The living corpse spasmed backward over the sled's pilot, who was trying to unbuckle himself.

Sten slammed into the copilot's seat, then tucked his feet under him and snapped up.

The sled's pilot had fought his way free of the body and was standing. Sten came in on the man. His intentions were to take one prisoner and ask very serious questions.

But the pilot took one look at the gory Sten and that small sliver of metal that was death itself, screamed, and hurled himself over the side of the combat car.

Sten grabbed for the man, but too late. He watched the screaming form pinwheel down toward the parkland far below.

Collect… collect… and no-mind died, combat madness went away, and Sten swore to himself.

Breathe… breathe… and he sat down, not noticing the blood that swirled and trickled across the gravsled's deck.

Rationality returned, and Sten looked at the five dead men in the sled. Haines can find something out about them, one part of his mind decided. Less important, another told him. You don't believe in coincidence. You went to Hakone. You were given a song-and-dance. On your leaving, someone attempted to kill you.

Considering the Imperial warrant he had been given, Sten had enough to arrest Hakone and use any means necessary, including brainscan, to find out how Hakone tied into the conspiracy to assassinate the Emperor.

But that was too easy a solution.

Somehow Sten had the idea that no one as highly visible and vocal as Kai Hakone would be the mastermind behind the attempt.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Fog swirled over the long, brilliant-black ship that sat on a landing field barely longer than itself. Lights haloed around the loading ports as men and women loaded equipment and themselves on board.

The landing field was carried on Prime World's books as an Imperial Fleet tacship/emergency field, but it was actually used only by the Emperor for arrivals and departures he did not want to see blazoned on the vid-screen.

The ship itself was equally obscure. According to the record books, it had been constructed as the Imperial Merchant Ship (Passenger)
Normandie
. A luxury, super-speed liner that had been mothballed after its third voyage.

The
Normandie
did appear, from the outside, to be a conventional liner, but it had been built for one purpose only—to be the Emperor's vehicle, whether for secret missions or for vacations. It had the armament of a fleet destroyer and the power drive of a fleet cruiser.

It took less than a hundred men to run the
Normandie
, which was state-of-the-art automated. That did not mean the ship was cramped, since the largest percentage of the
Normandie
was taken up with Imperial accommodations. Movable bulkheads and decking insured that the Emperor could hold anything from a private party for himself and a lady to an Imperial summit meeting.

Since the ship officially did not exist, it did not have to worry about proper clearances. When necessary, it was easy for the
Normandie
to assume one or another of the identities of its supposed sister ships.

It may have been the biggest cloak-plus-dagger ever built.

"Marr, you are being a daffodil. There is no possible pollution here."

"You talk and talk," Marr sniffed, "but I tell you, I can
smell
the fumes from the drive."

Marr and Senn were possibly the only caterers in history given an eyes-only security clearance.

They stood near the waist of the
Normandie
, watching as their supplies rolled up the conveyor into the guts of the ship.

"All right, so there is pollution. I touch your delicate nostrils. But what will that matter to the fish? They are in tanks, not standing out here in the murk catching their death.

"I am merely concerned that these Tahn beings will find our food offensive," Marr said. "How would you like to be responsible for this conference's falling apart because of indigestion?"

Their predawn bickering was broken off as Subadar-Major Limbu strolled up. The Gurkha officer was in full combat gear, including willy gun and kukri, hung in its sheath in the middle of his back. He saluted.

"These fish," he indicated. "They are not for my men?"

"They are not, Chittahang. I have enough dahl, rice, and soyasteak to turn every one of your naiks into balloons such as the one you are starting to resemble."

Chattahang glanced at his stomach reflexively, then recovered. "Ah. Very good. But I shall tell you a secret. That bulge is not from my stomach. I find it necessary to coil some of my other organs above my belt." He grinned, winked, and went back to supervising the loading of his men.

"Marr, do you ever think we shall get the better of these small brown ones?"

"Probably not." Marr turned and reacted. "Our fearless leader has arrived."

Five large flitters settled beside the
Normandie
, and people unloaded.

"See, it's that glut Sullamora with the Emperor," Senn hissed. "Why was he invited?"

"I am not the Emperor, darling, but I assume that, since he is an Imperial trader there must be something involving trading rights with these Tahn—Senn, are you
sure
we are prepared?"

Marr and Senn had been alerted to provide rations shortly after the Emperor-Tahn meeting had been set.

They had immediately researched the tastes of the Tahn, particularly of their Lords. Fortunately, vid-tapes on exotic cooking were still popular in the fortieth century. They had provided everything from live brine shrimp to starch to still-growing vegetables. Plus some surprises of their own, since every chef feels he can improve on anyone's diet.

Bootheels thudded on the tarmac, and the contingent of Praetorians doubled in from the security perimeter. They were ordered and counted by Colonel Den Fohlee, and paraded on board.

"Do we have enough?" Marr worried.

"We have enough! One hundred fifty Praetorians, and we have enough starch and raw protein to keep them happy for a millennium. Thirty Gurkhas. The crew, with its own rations. The Emperor—who knows what he'll want—Sullamora… I procured his favorite recipes from his cook. Extras enough for these Tahn, even if they feed their starving hordes. We are
ready
, my love."

"Yes, but what are
we
—you and I—going to eat?"

Just as Senn's membranes wrinkled in alarm, the boarding alarm gonged.

The last of the rations went on board, and the ship's ports swung shut. The flitters cleared the field, and then the
Normandie's
Yukawa-drive hissed more loudly, and she lifted away.

Offworld,
Normandie
would rendezvous with a destroyer squadron and a cruiser element. Those Imperial sailors had been told only that they were to escort a ship to a location, prevent anything from happening to that ship, and then return it to its base. They had no idea that the Eternal Emperor was on board, nor that the meeting with the Tahn lords was the only chance of avoiding an eventual intergalactic war.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

The group sat silently around the huge table that was Frye's main groaning board. Solid depression had set in. At the far end of the table Haines was idly doodling on her miniscreen. At the other end sat a strangely quiet Alex. He gloomed across the table at Liz, who was punching in a few last commands at her ever-present control unit.

Sten entered, a sheaf of print-outs under his arm, and saw the expectant looks come suddenly up at him.

"No," he said, "I don't have a thing… but maybe I've got some kind of weird map we can all jump off from."

People came alive again. Sten began handling out the sheafs of paper. "One thing I learned as a crunchie—when you're stuck in it, make a list of what you know. And what you don't know."

He gave them all a sickly grin and shrugged. "Keeps you looking busy and important, anyway."

They began going over Sten's list. The facts had been boiled down:

• The original plot was to assassinate the Emperor. All information indicates a wide-ranging conspiracy.

• The plot is continuing. Otherwise, why the mysterious deaths near Soward—all former Praetorians or palace employees? Also, why the attack on Sten? By former Praetorians—mostly deserters. Subfact: At least forty Praetorians disappeared in the last E-year.

• The plot seems to involve someone in the palace itself. Consider the multitude of computer taps and scans on the outside that lead, and then disappear, in there.

• To repeat, the plot is continuing, and the Emperor logically is still the ultimate target.

"As a cop," Haines broke in, "it sure would make me feel better if I knew the target was out of the way."

"At least that has been solved," Sten said. "The Emperor has left Prime World. I can't tell you for where, but he is absolutely safe and surrounded by trusted advisors and security."

Alex breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank th' lord," he said. "No clottin' Romans."

"Has the Emperor been informed how deep in the drank we are?" Liz asked.

"Negative," Sten answered. "We've agreed on absolute com silence. I can only reach him in an emergency. There is a line established at the palace."

They waited for him to say more, and then when he didn't, continued reading.

• Kai Hakone is obviously one of the main conspirators. Key indicators here are Stynburn and the many other connections to the Battle of Saragossa. Also, Sten was attacked immediately after interviewing the suspect.

•
Zaarah Wahrid
is another connection to the Battle of Saragossa. Question: What does a destroyed ship have to do with the conspiracy?

• Complicating factor: Hakone had no connection with the palace. He is a known adversary of the Emperor and is not welcome.

"When do we arrest this clot, lad? Ah'll twist his guts into a winding sheet an' find out what we mus' ken."

"Not a chance, Alex," Sten said. "To defuse this thing we've got to pick up everybody at the same time.

Especially the inside man at the palace."

"Take Hakone now and we blow it," Haines agreed.

They bent their heads to read the rest.

• Should we be checking the archives for more on Saragossa? Could other connections be hidden?

"Have you got a year?" Liz said dryly. "I don't know a computer in the Empire that could run that scan sooner."