Vortex (Sten #7). Allan Cole

      “Oh. Just a moment, I’ve got to check the ‘dex . . . yes. I’d be delighted, Sten. How formal is this place?”

      “Sidearms should be unobtrusive, but color-coordinated. At . . . 1930?”

      “Seven-thirty it is,” Cind said, and broke the connection.

      * * * *

      “And dinnae we look pretty, lad. Are we wooin’ or spookin’ t’night?”

      “A little of both.”

      “Ah.” Alex brushed nonexistent lint from Sten’s raw silk shirtjac. “Well, y’re set up on th’ far end. Sh’d Ah hae extraction set up, or will y’ RON?”

      “My God,” Sten said. “I never realized the joys of being an orphan before. Mother Kilgour, I don’t have any idea of whether I’m remaining overnight anywhere, whether I’m even going to get kissed, and what concern is it of yours, anyway?”

      “Ah’m mere remindin’ you y’ hae a 1115 wi’ th’ Emp tomorrow, f’r final briefing. And I’ll be there. Anything else?”

      “Noo . . . yes. Y’r scarf’s all crookedy.” Kilgour straightened it. “An’ as m’ mum useta advise, dinna be doin’ aught you cannae stand up in church an’ tell th’ deac aboot.”

      “She really said that?”

      “Aye. An’ now y’ ken why th’ Kilgours are nae a church-goin’t clan.”

      Kilgour slid out. Sten made a fast final check — damn, but I seem to be spending a lot of time in front of mirrors lately — and he was ready. He tucked a hideout willygun into a chamois ankle holster, curled his fingers twice — the knife came out of its arm-sheath easily — and he was ready for a night on the town.

      There was a tap on the door.

      “It’s open.” He wondered what new, last-minute harassment Kilgour had come up with. But no one entered. Instead, again came the tap.

      Sten frowned, crossed to the door, and opened it.

      Three small, well-muscled young men stood there. They wore civilian clothes — but their suits all looked as if they had been issued by some central authority.

      They were Gurkkhas. They snapped to attention and saluted. Sten started to return the salute, then caught himself.

      “Forgive me, honored soldiers. But I am no longer a soldier.”

      “You are still a soldier. You are Sten. You are still Subadar.”

      “I thank you once more,” Sten said. “Would you come in? I have but a few moments.”

      Sten ushered them inside. The three stood in uncomfortable silence.

      “Shall I send for tea?” Sten asked. “Or whiskey, if you are off duty? I must apologize for my bad Gurkhali. But my tongue is rusty.”

      “We will have nothing,” one said. The other two looked at him and nodded. He was now their appointed spokesperson.

      “I am Lalbahadur Thapa,” he said. “This man is Chittahang Limbu. And this one here is Mahkhajiri Gurung. He thinks he is of a superior caste, but do not let his arrogance trouble you. He is still a good soldier. All of us carry the rank of Naik.”

      “Lalbahadur . . . Chittahang . . . you bear honorable names.”

      “They are — were our fathers. This Mahkhajiri’s father runs the recruiting depot on Earth. At Pokhara.”

      Havildar-Major Lalbahadur Thapa had fallen saving the Emperor’s life from assassins years before. Long ago, Subadar-Major Chittahang Limbu had replaced Sten as commander of the Gurkkhas — at Sten’s request. Chittahang had been the first Gurkkha to command the unit, establishing a tradition.

      Gurkkhas, in addition to their other virtues, had very long memories, at least as regards their friends and enemies.

      “How may I serve you?” Sten asked.

      “A notice was posted in the Administration Office, saying that you desired volunteers for a special mission, and any member of the Imperial household was invited to apply.”

      “You?”

      “There are twenty-four more of us.”

      “But . . .” Sten sat down. He felt as if somebody had sucker-punched him in the psychic diaphragm. He regained equilibrium. “Gurkkhas serve only the Emperor.”

      “That was true.”

      “Was?”

      “Only cows and mountains never change. We discussed this matter with our captain. He agreed that serving the Emperor by helping you with your mission, whatever it is, would be sabash — well done.”

      “This volunteering was done,” Sten said carefully, “with Imperial permission?”

      “How could it be otherwise? The notice ended with ‘In the Name of the Emperor.’”

      Gurkkhas could be very naive on occasion. Sometimes it was theorized they were deliberately so, using blankness as a device so they could do exactly as they had previously decided.

      Sten thought that if the Emperor did not know — and approve — of their request, all hell might break loose. After all, one of the most impressive Imperial boasts was that after the assassination the Gurkkhas had refused service under the privy council, returned to Earth, and waited for the Imperial return.

      Sten didn’t let this potential ego problem show on his face or in his words. Instead, he beamed. “I am most honored, gentlemen. I shall speak to your commanding officer and to your bahun, and begin the proper ceremonies.”

      Fortunately the Gurkkhas were not obsessed with long ceremonials, so Sten was able to usher the three men out in a few moments without offending anyone’s dignity. Then he allowed himself a few minutes of ponderment and one stregg.

      Damn, he thought. Why me? Why this? I think I’d better walk very small when I bring this up to the Emperor. Then the thought leapt:

      But if it works out — and I go in with some Gurkkhas — the Emperor is sure going to get the flash he said he wanted. Plus, his backbrain chortled, I won’t have any trouble keeping my back covered . . .

      * * * *

      Cind had no idea what was going on.

      First Sten had asked her out — socially. Then he had made that strange remark about sidearms being unobtrusive but color-coordinated.

      She had chanced a fast call to Kilgour, a man she felt was on her side. Maybe. And whatever her side was anyway, which she was none too sure of.

      Of course, the Scotsman had been less than no help.

      “You remember, Mr. Kilgour, a conversation we had some time ago,” Cind began. “When you said I was, uh, too young and striking to play spy?”

      Alex thought back. Vaguely. “Ah do.”

      “Sten invited me to dinner this evening. I have the idea that . . . this is about half professional.”

      “Thae’s a good startin’t point, lass. Th’ puir waif canna do naught thae’s not work-related. ‘Twill lead him t’ an early grave, Ah’m fearit.”

      “Where are we going?”

      “Y’mean morally, collectively, or historically?”

      “I mean where is Sten taking me for dinner? And how should I dress?”

      “Ah. I misunderstood. Th’ place is secure, an’ y’should dress cazz. Cazz dressy. Carry heat i’ y’ wish. Ah would. But y’re safe.”

      “You’ll not tell me any more.”

      “A course not, Cind. Dinnae Ah think — an’ Ah’m