Vortex (Sten #7). Allan Cole

that suggest that the Imperial energy shipments are . . . being diverted.”

      “You mean someone is stealing the AM2,” Aretha said. “They are. Or rather, the Khaqan is.”

      “Where’s it going?”

      “Not sure. I attempted to learn — and found my esteemed ambassadorial leader a stumbling block. Some of it, I think, is going to the Khaqan’s cronies within the cluster. Some of it is being outshipped, and the profits used to build his monuments. More is just disappearing.”

      Aretha finished her dinner and had a final sip of mineral water. “You have no doubt been told of the Khaqan’s infatuation with large, ornate structures. But until you see for yourself just how massive an edifice complex he has, you will not believe it.”

      “I thank you, Aretha. It would seem to me — and this must stay QT — that the most logical way to keep the lid on the Altaic Cluster is to quarantine all four races to their own sectors. At least, kept at arm’s length, they can’t manage a pogrom a week.”

      Aretha whinnied laughter. “You were not told.”

      “I evidently have not been told several things,” Sten said.

      “Many, many years ago, the Khaqan decided to settle this terrible problem. So he intermingled these beings.”

      “What?”

      “He arbitrarily chose resettlement. A nation of Suzdal, for instance, that rose against him would be moved, once the rising was suppressed. Frequently their new home would be in the middle of Bogazi worlds.”

      “Oh, drakh,” Sten said. He poured himself a drink — straight. He started to drain it, then offered the decanter to Cind. She shook her head.

      “Even more amusing,” Aretha went on, “the Khaqan formed various militias. Each of a single group of beings.”

      “That makes no sense,” Cind said.

      “Oh, but it does. If you use each group of militia only against their traditional enemies, it keeps the anger focused everywhere except on you — the Khaqan. Another advantage is that these militia forces, stationed worlds and light-years away from their native sectors, are not only potential hostages, but keep the home worlds from being able to easily mount a revolution or civil war.”

      There was a loud crash, what sounded like gunshots from downstairs, and then whooping laughter. Aretha looked longingly at the door to the snug.

      Sten smiled. “Thank you, Colonel. I owe you one. Now, if you’d ask Delaney to bring up the bill?”

      “Would you permit me to buy you a drink downstairs?”

      “I don’t think so,” Sten said. “I’ve got an early morning, and the . . . gentleman I’m seeing might not appreciate his favorite ambassador sporting a mouse.”

      With a whicker of pleasure, Aretha was out the door and headed down the stairs. In a second, Sten and Cind heard an even louder crash.

      “I hope this place has a back door,” Cind said.

      “It does,” Sten said. “Have you ever heard of a spookery that didn’t?”

      * * * *

      Sten’s tongue caressed down Cind’s neck, following the cleavage of the dress. Cind sighed . . . deep in her throat . . . near a growl. His hand moved along the inside of her thigh.

      Their rented gravsled was on autopilot, holding a westering speed of barely fifty kph, and an altitude of nearly six thousand meters, out of any traffic lanes. Sten had managed to turn on all coil-sensors before the two of them tumbled, locked together, into the wide back.

      Sten’s hand found her belt buckle and fumbled. Nothing happened. “I feel like a teener,” he said.

      “You should,” Cind murmured. “You tell me all about that enormous Imperial bed — and then hurl me into a rentawreck’s backseat like we were flashing pubescents. Serve you right if a cop overflew. I can see it now,” she murmured into his ear. “Hero Ambassador Found With Nude Bodyguard.”

      “But you’re not . . .”

      His fingers suddenly became capable.

      “Yes, I am,” Cind said throatily, as the dress came away and the nipples of her small breasts shone dark in the moonlight.

      Their lips came together, tongues moving smoothly as if this were long-rehearsed and never the first time, and then her warmth caught him and drew him down and in for the eternity.

      CHAPTER SIX

      THE ATMOSPHERE IN the Imperial study was autumnal. There was no alk or stregg in sight. Sten felt himself very definitely in the V-ring as he came to the end of his Altaic mission briefing and sped through the last few items. “Coding . . . SOI . . . emergency procedures . . . all that’s here in the fiche. We’re ready. The Victory can lift within three E-days when victuals and ordnance are boarded.”

      Sten put two copies of his fiche on the Emperor’s desk. They were coded and marked for the highest security access. The Emperor ignored them.

      “You seem,” he said, “to have also done an excellent job of picking your personnel for this mission. Your longtime aide — the heavyworlder. The Bhor. Their commander. Most photogenic. And an excellent way to avoid . . . foreign entanglements.”

      Whoever had had the meeting before Sten’s must really have crapped in the Emp’s mess kit. But Sten was used to vile temper from his superiors and paid no mind. “One more thing, sir. Also regarding personnel.”

      “What else do you want?”

      “A skipper for the Victory. I think you’ve arranged it so that I’m going to be very busy on Jochi.”

      “Is there somebody you want?”

      “Fleet Admiral Rohber Mason. He’s currently awaiting reassignment here on Prime.”

      At first the idea had come to Sten as almost a joke. Then, on further consideration, it seemed a better and better idea. Mason might run a tyrannical ship, but the morale of the Victory’s crew was not especially of concern to Sten. Keeping himself alive was — and Sten knew that Mason the martinet was as capable of that as anyone. Besides, he knew that the admiral would follow orders. He was mildly curious to see whether it would bother Mason to serve under a man he disliked. Probably not — Mason almost certainly had the same feeling for all sentient beings. Sten himself had learned as a Delinq and then a soldier that one did not have to be friends with someone to task with them.

      “Mmm. Very well. But you have a habit of wanting my best.”

      So the Emperor had heard of Sten’s prospective Gurkkha recruits. “Yessir. And that brings up something else. I’ve had twenty-seven of your Gurkkhas volunteer for this mission.”

      “And you told them?”

      “I told them that if this was in accordance with Imperial policy, they would be welcome. They seemed to feel your approval had been tacitly granted.”

      The Emperor swung his chair around and stared out the window at the sprawling castle grounds. He said something that Sten could not make out.

      “Pardon, sir?”

      “Nothing.”

      Silence. Then the Emperor swung around again. He was smiling. He chuckled once.

      “Having a few Nepalese along,” he said, “would certainly suggest to the Altaic beings that your mission is taken very seriously — and that you have access to the very highest levels, wouldn’t it?”

      Sten did not answer.

      “Take them,” the Eternal Emperor said. “It will do them good. We probably should start a program of rotating the Gurkkhas into temporary outside field duties. Give them experience — and keep them from getting stale.”

      “Yessir.”