Vortex (Sten #7). Allan Cole

this. Maybe he’s just pushing too hard, trying to put this crumble of an Empire back together. I . . . I truly do not know,” Mahoney said once more.

      “That’s the other question,” Sten said. “Maybe the real question, and what’s been eating at me. Can this clottin’ Empire be saved? Or did the combination of the Tahn war and the privy council batter it too much?”

      “Clean it up . . . three, two, now . . . Again, Sten, the only answer I have is DNC — insufficient data.”

      They walked on, as the path wound toward the artificial mountain the Emperor had built with the ostensible reason of keeping him from having to look at the clots in Parliament, talking of this, and that. At last Mahoney announced that they were outside any bugs, and asked about Sten’s current assignment.

      “We’ve got ten minutes now, so give me the full details.”

      Sten did. Mahoney mostly kept silent, except for an occasional shake of his head or grunt.

      “Now, there’s a fine example of what I’ve been groping at,” Mahoney said. “The Altaic Cluster. Good analysis by the boss, yet you wonder why he let it go on for so long. Blame it on being busy with bigger catastrophes.

      “What’s bad is that he told you to go out there and lay sacred hands on the Khaqan and bless his hustle. He could just as well, and possibly more wisely, have sent you out to get a feel for the problem and then reach a solution as to whether to reinforce the old thief or just send in Mantis to cut his throat.

      “Now there’s a point that just occurred to me, thinking out loud as I am. It’s as if he doesn’t quite have the same patience or depth.

      “Oh well,” he said. “Oh well.”

      “The problem is,” Sten said, smiling a bit ruefully, “is that the Emp is, as far as I can see, the only game in town.”

      Mahoney did not answer him. “I’m sure it’ll all straighten out,” he said obliquely. “Now. We’re coming up on range of more bigears. Let me take care of my business. I didn’t go to all this clottin’ trouble because I particularly care about your pissant personal problems. There’s chaplains for trash like that.”

      Sten laughed, feeling a great deal more cheery. Mahoney was using the old Mantis “sorry you’re bleeding to death but could you do it in another color, since I always hated red” hard-edged sympathy.

      “First, here.” Mahoney’s hand brushed Sten’s, and a square of plas passed between them. “That’s body-temp sensitive. Keep it close. If you drop it it’ll char.”

      “What’s on it?”

      “A very elaborate, very complicated computer program, and its two brothers. Get to any Imperial computer terminal that’s cleared for all/un input, and key the codes in. The first one will wipe all references, anywhere in the Imperial records, including Mantis and Imperial Eyes Only, to one Ian Mahoney. The second does the same for Sten, No Initial; the third for that thug Kilgour. After wiping, it then mutates in all directions, destroying as it goes.”

      “Why the hell would I need that?” Sten said in complete shock.

      Mahoney didn’t answer. “One other thing. And listen close, because I am only going to say it once, and I want you to bury it in your backbrain.

      “If the drakh comes down — really comes down, and you will absolutely know what I mean if it does — start by going home. There’s something waiting.”

      “Small-”

      “Think, goddamn it,” Mahoney snarled. “You’ve got your head up like you were a straight-leg trainee. That’s it. Four tools, maybe. Or four parts of an old man’s degenerating into senility?”

      Mahoney chortled suddenly. “. . . said, ‘you clot, the line was there’s hope in her soul.’

      Mahoney laughed. Sten, more than familiar with situations when sudden merriment sans joke was required, also laughed. “Fine, Ian. If we’re telling old stinkers, here’s one of Kilgour’s, which I won’t even begin to try in dialect.”

      As his mouth began the words to the half-remembered joke, Sten forbade himself a guilty look back over his shoulder at Arundel Castle . . . and concentrated on jokes, obscene, scots, stupid.

      * * * *

      Days later, Ian Mahoney stood in the shadows near a spaceport hangar. Far across the field a violet flame plumed into the night.

      The Victory lifted smoothly on its Yukawa drive until it was a thousand meters above Prime. Then its captain shifted to star-drive, and suddenly there was nothing but silence and night sky.

      Mahoney stood for a long time looking up at that nothing.

      Luck, lad. Better than mine. Because I’m starting to think mine’s running thin.

      And I hope you learn it may be time for this town to hunt up another game — and find out just what exactly it could be.

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      THERE WERE ABOUT twenty beings cloistered in the room. The atmosphere was conspiratorial. Thick with talk — and smells. The sweet musk of the Suzdal. The mint/fish odor of the Bogazi. And the methane and ammonia aroma of humans. “Like privies smell,” the Bogazi male clicked. “Own privies.”

      “Shush. Might hear,” one of his wives warned. She fussed over him, tucking a stray feather back into his fabulous tail display. His name was Hoatzin.

      He tapped the big hammer of his beak against hers, showing pleasure. “Humans I study in books only,” Hoatzin said. “Some in school I see. But not close.”

      He waved a delicate grasping limb at the humans in the room. “This very close. Like it. Not smell. Like study close.” Hoatzin was a teacher, as were most males in his society. They reared the young. Their domain was the nest and the book. For the wives, it was the hunt.

      Hoatzin looked over at the main table with pride. This is where the leaders of each group held forth, seeking a way, or, at least, agreement to agree. His chief wife, Diatry, was one of the four. She was speaking now.

      “In circles we talk,” she said. “Big egg circles. But big nothing in egg. Could all night stay. Talk and talk. Still egg not hatch.” She peered down the hammer beak at the much smaller forms around her. Even by Bogazi standards she was tall: nearly three meters.

      The Suzdal pack leader made a tooth display. The dim light glittered all along the sharp edges. “Summed up like a true Bogazi,” Youtang said. “Forget the flesh. Get to the bone of the thing.”

      The flattery to a former enemy was not intended. Youtang was getting weary of all the fencing. She would probably be surprised to learn that she had one other thing in common with the Bogazi: In their hatred of the smell of humans, they were sisters.

      The general sighed. He wasn’t sure how he had let himself be talked into this meeting. Except that the Tork, Menynder, was notoriously persuasive. Douw was frightened. What had started as an information-only probe had developed into a full-scale engagement. The current griping irritated him. As the Jochian secretary of defense, he certainly had the most to lose.

      “What more am I supposed to say?” Douw gave his shoulders a helpless shrug. “That conditions are intolerable? Of course they are.” He looked nervously around. “I mean . . . some conditions are bad. On the other hand . . .”

      “There’s a foot,” Menynder broke in.

      “What?” Douw’s face was a blank.

      Like a cow, Menynder thought. A silver-haired cow. “This isn’t a staff meeting, General,” he said. “Every being here has a life on the line. We gotta start talking plain. Otherwise the risk isn’t worth it.”

      He motioned around the room. “I told you the place was clean. I had it scoured for bugs stone by stone. Now, so far I have provided a safe place to meet. Right in the middle