Vortex (Sten #7). Allan Cole

risked it even coming out of her roost.”

      The Tork shifted his heavy weight in the chair. “Face it, General, if he knows we’re here we are already dead. Now, let’s go.”

      Douw soaked this up, slowly churning it through his conservative military mind. Menynder was right.

      “After close observation of the Khaqan,” he said quite formally, “I have come to the conclusion that he is insane.”

      No one laughed. Every being in the room realized the step Douw had just taken. It was almost as if the words had been delivered in a courtroom.

      “Furthermore, I believe he has become a danger not only to himself, but to all the beings living in the Altaic Cluster.” The general sucked in breath and let it out in a great whoosh. There. It was done.

      The room erupted.

      “I’ll say he’s insane,” Youtang said. “Killed every one of his own cubs, didn’t he?”

      “One hatchling was trouble,” Diatry said. “With rebels he plotted.”

      “Sure. But what about the others? Three daughters and a son. He killed them all. Afraid they wouldn’t wait until he died for them to try to take over.” Youtang was especially outraged by this sin. The Suzdal were highly protective of their young.

      “In gluttony he lives,” Diatry said. “Food. Drink. Sex. Money. Power. Too much of all he has. All over Altaics, roosts are cold. Markets they are empty. Stores outside we line. For hours and hours. What a life is this?”

      “Drakh. That’s what,” Youtang snarled. “What do we do about it?” Menynder pressed.

      “Do? What’s to be done?” Douw asked.

      Menynder boomed laughter. “Well, from the looks of things in this room, we’re all pretty much in agreement that the old buzzard has to go.”

      “Three questions we must decide,” Diatry said. “One: Do we kill? Two: If kill, how? Three: Once gone, who rules? In these I am correct, yes?”

      There were no arguments.

      “Let’s start with the last part,” Menynder said. “Speaking as a Tork, I’m tired of us getting short-ended because we’re a minority. Whoever takes the Khaqan’s place is going to have to deal with that.”

      “I agree,” Youtang said.

      “Same for Bogazi,” Diatry said.

      “What if we felt out Dr. Iskra?” Menynder wondered. “He’s respected all over the cluster. And he has a rep for seeing all sides of a problem.”

      Iskra was a member of the Jochian majority. But he was a famous professor who had made his mark in Imperial circles. Another plus was that he was currently the Emperor’s territorial governor of one of the conquered Tahn regions.

      There was a long silence, as the beings in the room pondered the suggestion.

      “I don’t know,” Youtang said finally. “Lots of smoke. Not a lot of substance. I mean, who knows how he really thinks?”

      They all turned to see what General Douw had to say about the proposal. The general’s brow was furrowed with thought. “Do you really think we need to kill the Khaqan?” he asked.

      There was a frustrated murmur around the room, but before anyone could speak, the door crashed open!

      Every being in the room lost a lifespan as they looked up to see their worst nightmare: the Khaqan. Standing in the doorway. Flanked by gold-robed soldiers. Riotguns leveled.

      “Traitors!” the Khaqan roared. “Plotting my murder!”

      He strode forward, face a bloodless mask of death, bony finger jabbing like a specter to pierce each heart, emptying lungs and defecating organs.

      “I’ll roast you alive,” the Khaqan shrieked. He was at the table now, his fury pouring over them. “But first, I’ll take you apart — small piece by small piece. And I’ll feed the pieces to your children. And I’ll feed them to your friends. And they’ll be the ones who stand at the Killing Wall.”

      He gathered up the fury into a chest-bursting balloon and shouted: “Take them to my-”

      Sudden silence. Everyone stared at the Khaqan. His mouth was a wide O. His eyes bulged. The death face had turned swollen red. Even the soldiers were gaping at him.

      The Khaqan plunged face forward on the table. Small bones cracked. Blood gouted from his mouth. Then the body slowly slid to the floor.

      Menynder squatted beside him and put a practiced hand to the Khaqan’s throat. He stood. Removed his spectacles. Cleaned them. Put them back on.

      “Well?” Oddly, the question came from the captain of the guard.

      “He’s dead,” Menynder announced.

      “Thank God,” the soldier said, lowering his weapon. “The old son of a bitch had gone looners.”

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      THE AMBASSADOR AND the warrior lay entwined in bed asleep. Naked limbs had curled around each other until the two bodies resembled an ancient Chinese puzzle knot, of the erotic variety.

      The ambassador’s groin was covered with the warrior’s barracks cap.

      Through the thick insulated walls of the ambassador’s suite the distant sounds of a shift change could be heard. Somewhere in the bowels of the Victory a pump shuddered into life and began filtering the fluids in the hydroponic tanks.

      The blond curls of the warrior stirred first. Long lashes fluttered open. The warrior peered into the face of the sleeping ambassador. The warrior’s eyes roamed downward to the barracks cap, then lit with mischief. Little teeth flashed in a crooked grin.

      Cind carefully untied her portion of the knot. Sliding her lovely limbs out of Sten’s embrace, she knelt on the Eternal Emperor’s yawning bed. There was room for a whole division of lovers on its silky smoothness. But for what Cind had in mind, the vast playing field was a waste.

      She gently lifted the cap away. Her slender fingers reached for their target. Blond head and soft lips dipped downward.

      Sten was dreaming about Smallbridge. He had been roaming the snowfields that spread from the forest to his cabin by the lake. For some reason he had been dressed in battle harness — tight battle harness. Odder still, the harness was cinched over his naked flesh. It wasn’t uncomfortable or anything. Just odd.

      Suddenly, he was inside his cabin, lying by a crackling fire. The harness was gone. But he was still naked — and something wonderful was going on. Then he realized he was asleep. And dreaming. Well, it wasn’t all a dream. Not the naked part. Or the wonderful goings on. Then the fire crackled louder.

      “Ambassador, your presence is requested on the bridge!” The fire was talking.

      “What?” This a murmur.

      “Ambassador! Do you hear me?”

      “Go away, fire. I’m busy.”

      “Ambassador Sten. This is Admiral Mason. If you please, I need you on the bridge.”

      The wonderfulness abruptly stopped. Sten opened his eyes, suddenly in a sour mood. His mood curdled more when he saw Cind’s rounded curves and disappointed face. Her lips formed the word “Sorry.” She shrugged.

      Sten palmed the switch of the com unit on the built-in bedside stand. “Okay, Mason,” he said, doing his best not to snarl, with little success. “Be right there.”

      Cind started laughing. Sten’s frown deepened. Clottin’ Mason.

      “Give me the order,” Cind said, “and I’ll trot out a firing squad and have him shot.”

      Sten finally saw the humor and joined her laughter. “Do I get to torture him first?” he snarled.