Vortex (Sten #7). Allan Cole

hurry,” Sten said.

      * * * *

      Two hours later, he checked the clock, thought wistfully of Cind, and turned back to Mason.

      “Maybe we’re drowning our own sensors,” Sten suggested tentatively. “The Victory is pretty new. Not much time on the engines. Leaky baffles, perhaps?”

      The scar on Mason’s face purpled. He had personally checked the scans on every flex nut and seam. No way would he allow some slipup to embarrass him in front of this son of a Xypaca. He would rather eat drakh for rations.

      “I had it happen on my first tacship,” Sten lied smoothly, knowing what Mason was thinking. He wasn’t needling the man. After all, Mason was in charge. Sten just wanted the problem solved. “It was brand new and barely broken in when Mr. Kilgour and I got it.”

      Sten indicated his heavyworld friend, whose technical knowledge had been commandeered by Mason’s com officer. The two were conferring, hands flying over the com center panel. Buzzwords thickened the air.

      “The designer hadn’t factored the effect broken-in engines would have on the baffling,” Sten said. “Blew clot out of our reception. Transmissions, too.”

      Mason’s scar returned to normal color. “Good thought,” he said. “I’ll check it.” He gave orders to his chief engineer, mentally kicking himself for not thinking of it first.

      A few minutes later word came back. “That was no good,” Mason said. He was too professional to gloat. The admiral wanted the problem solved, too. “You were right about the leakage. But it’s minor. Not enough to foul things up.”

      Sten nodded. He had only been hoping. He looked over at Kilgour and the com officer, wanting to ask how they were doing. But he kept his lips buttoned. Not his place.

      “Anything to report?” Sten heard Mason ask his com officer.

      The com officer and Kilgour exchanged looks. “He’d better tell you, sir,” the officer said.

      “Ah wae puzzlin’t i’ it twere th’ bafflin’ myself, sir,” Kilgour said. “But thae’d on’y mess wi’ transmission. The talkin’. Nae the hearin’.”

      “Except for some stray old radio echoes, sir,” the com officer told Mason, “there’s not one thing being broadcast on the whole planet. Jochi is silent, sir. Not even any livie feed. And you know how broad those bands are? I’ve tried every kind of transmission I could think of to rouse someone, sir. Sr. Kilgour threw in a few ideas of his own. I double-identified the Victory. I even pointed out that his majesty’s personal emissary was on board.” He gave Sten a worried nod. “Still no answer.”

      “Anything from the other worlds in the system?” Mason asked. “Negative, sir. As silent as Jochi. But the funny thing is . . .” His voice faded. “Yes? Speak up, man.”

      The com officer looked at Kilgour and licked his lips. Kilgour gave him a reassuring nod.

      “It’s real spooky, if you don’t mind, sir. There are no broadcasts, as I said. But every scanner we’ve got going is just showing a flicker of life. As if everybody on Jochi was tuned in at the same time. Listening. But not talking.”

      “Th’ silence hae a wee echo t’ it, sir,” Alex said. “Like a specter m’ ol’ gran conjured t’ frighten us bairns wi’.”

      Mason gave Alex a withering look, then turned to his com officer. “Keep transmitting,” he said.

      “Yes, sir.”

      The com officer keyed the mike. “This is His Imperial Majesty’s battleship Victory calling. All receiving stations are requested to respond.”

      Keyed off. Waited. Got silence. Tried again. “This is His Imperial . . .” Mason motioned to Sten and strolled to a quiet comer of the bridge.

      “I don’t understand what’s going on,” Mason said. “I’ve carpet bombed half a planet, and even out of the smoking ruins some poor bassid managed to get on the air. Spotty transmission, yes. Silence, never.”

      “There’s only one way that I can think of to answer the question,” Sten said. “You mean, land anyway?”

      “That’s what I was thinking.”

      “But the Emperor wanted a big show. Honor guard. Me in dress whites, you in tux and tails, and the whole band playing to idolizing crowds as you and the Khaqan greeted one another.”

      “I’ll arrange something later,” Sten said. “The Emperor is worried about this place. I’d rather forget the show and find out what’s happening.” He shook his head for effect. “Can’t imagine what he’d say if I came back and said, Sorry, sir. Mission abandoned. Seems the inhabitants of Jochi got the throat plague, or something.”

      “I’ll land,” Mason said. “But I’m going to full alert. And clear for action.”

      “I am in your capable hands, Admiral,” Sten said.

      Mason snorted and went back to the com center. Sten slipped quietly off the bridge.

      * * * *

      “Some ghost, Kilgour,” Sten said. He wiped the sweat from his brow and pulled his collar up to protect his neck from the fierce Jochi sun.

      “Mayhap’ th’ wee specter hae a bomb aboot him,” Alex said.

      Sten took another look around the Rurik spaceport. Except for his party, there wasn’t a being in sight. No one living, anyway. He thought he saw a charred stump lying in the rubble about a large bomb crater. Or maybe it was just an optical trick of the heat and the lung-drowning humidity.

      There were similar craters all over the spaceport, as well as the fire-blackened outlines of what must once have been a few parked tacships and a lot of combat cars.

      There was a sudden howl of air, and a small whirlwind touched down, sucking up bits of rubble as it cut across the ground. In the odd behavior of cyclones, large and small, it ran around the edge of the immense crater in the center of the field. Another bomb hole. A big clottin’ bomb. The hole was where the control tower had once stood.

      The twister lifted off and was gone.

      “Now we know the answer to why no one was talking,” Sten said. “Everybody’s too scared. Didn’t want to be noticed.”

      “But they’re all a listenin’, though,” Alex said.

      Sten nodded. “They’re waiting to hear who wins.”

      Heat lightning flashed. Then there was a heavy roll of thunder.

      His Gurkkhas suddenly lifted their willyguns. Something — or someone — was coming. Sten could make out a small figure edging around the ruins of the control tower. Cind and her scouts? No. They had reconned off in the other direction.

      “Still on’y one ae them,” Kilgour said. “Maybe it’s the band,” Sten said dryly.

      Gradually the small figure got larger. Sten could make out a squat, barrel-chested human, sweating copiously in the heat. Picking distastefully at his sodden clothing, the man tromped steadily onward. In his left hand he was tiredly waving a kerchief-size white flag.

      “Let him past,” Sten told the Gurkkhas.

      They parted ranks, and the man lumbered gratefully to a halt in front of Sten. He took off a pair of antique spectacles. Blew on the lenses. Wiped with the flag. Put them back on. Looked at Sten with his oddly magnified brown eyes.

      “I hope you’re Ambassador Sten,” he said. “And if you are, I’m real sorry about the lousy reception.”

      He looked around at the bomb craters. “Ouch. I guess they really went at it.”

      The man turned back. “You are Ambassador Sten, aren’t you?”

      “I am.”

      Sten