Death Match, page 19
part #3 of Sten Omnibus Series
“Then I was right,” Iskra hissed. “You do oppose me.”
“After what happened at Pooshkan, you expect plaudits? A military band to trumpet your accomplishments?”
“You blame that — abominable action on me? Me!” Iskra made his best face of outrage. Sten would have laughed if the dispute had not been over blood.
“I’ll have you know I’m sickened over the incident. I have ordered a complete investigation. Headed by a man whose reputation is above reproach: General Douw.”
Ho-ho, Sten thought. So that’s the way of the land, is it? Douw had been seduced into Iskra’s sphere.
“I’ll inform the Emperor,” Sten said. “He’ll be . . . interested. Which is not the word I’d use, doctor, to describe his reaction to the mess you’ve stepped in.”
“Bah! A stronger hand is all they need. These are my people, Sr. Ambassador. You don’t understand them. Blood feuds are an integral part of our history. It’s a fact of our nature, and always bubbling under the surface. This is why, when your support of me is so lackluster, it only takes a small incident — such as the tragedy at Pooshkan — to threaten chaos.”
“Chaos is what you’ve got all right,” Sten said. “What do you propose to do about it?”
“That is my concern,” Iskra snapped. “The private business of this cluster. Remember that.”
“I’ll do my best,” Sten said.
He thought about the note in his pocket, the one tearing Iskra a new defecating orifice. If he delivered it as planned, it wouldn’t make his future relations with Iskra any easier.
He thought about the young people dying at the barricades of Pooshkan. Clot future relations. Sten determined at that moment to rid himself of this man. He would gather every molecule of evidence. Build a stone bucket. So when he did speak to the Emperor, he would have proof enough to hammer Iskra out of the Altaics.
Besides, the man had already declared himself an enemy. At this point, most diplomatic rule books suggested a body blow-to the gut.
Sten pulled out the note and gave it to Iskra. “A little bedtime reading,” he said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” He exited the room, leaving Iskra gobbling after him.
As soon as he was gone, Venloe stalked in.
“That was unnecessary,” he snapped. “You’ve just made yourself a very serious enemy.”
“Him? Sten is a mere functionary.”
“Another mistake, doctor. Believe me, he’s no functionary.”
With a chill, Venloe remembered his encounter with Sten and Mahoney. He was alive this moment only because they had needed him.
“He was also right about the university,” Venloe said.
“It was necessary,” Iskra said. “As I told that fool of an ambassador, my people need a hard hand to rule them. It’s all they understand. The incident at the university gave me a perfect excuse to use that hard hand. My name will be blessed for generations when this is over. Believe me. I know my place in history.”
He peered at Venloe with a slight sneer on his lips. “You surprise me. I didn’t think you’d be so squeamish over a little blood spilled for good purpose. Strange how you think you know a being.”
Venloe just grunted noncommittally. The thought crossed his mind that if his assignment were of the usual nature, just how easy it would be to kill Iskra. Right now.
Without raising a sweat or leaving a sign of foul play. “I guess you don’t,” he said.
Iskra stared at him, trying to engage him in a childish battle of stare-down. Venloe’s fingers itched to put them both out. Instead, he lowered his gaze.
“Good,” Iskra muttered. “Now, I have some things I need. Desperately. I want to go over these requests thoroughly. So the Emperor will understand my requirements.”
He began detailing a massive shopping list that Venloe was sure would not be looked at kindly by the Eternal Emperor.
“I’m all ears,” Venloe said.
Sten leaned back in the seat of the gravcar. A heavy rainstorm sheeted the windows.
He was damned if he knew how to proceed next. Iskra was one of those beings that all diplomats met at least once in their careers, but were never the wiser afterward.
How did one deal with a ruler bent on his own ruin? The easy solution would be to just walk away. Unfortunately that was almost never a logical alternative.
Difficulty number one: In situations such as this, there is almost never an obvious successor. If the ruler is ruined, so is the kingdom. Which might be just ducky for all parties outside the kingdom, except for:
Difficulty number two: Suicidal rulers are always propped up by outsiders, whose own fate rests on the well-being of the threatened kingdom. In other words, nature is not allowed to take its course. If lightning strikes moral dry brush, many nationalities rush in with a fire brigade.
Sten realized that he was getting a major lesson through Iskra. The Altaics, he realized, had been doomed to their present unpleasantness the moment the first Jochians arrived in the cluster, clutching the Emperor’s charter.
The charter — a fancy word for a business relationship between the Jochians and the Emperor — made them special, favored above all others. Their right to rule became as God-given as any ancient monarch. The charter eventually created the Khaqans, who forced themselves on an unwilling populace.
Without the external support of the Emperor, the beings of the Altaics would have been forced to find some other solution. There would have been bloodshed, but eventually the Jochians, the Torks, the Suzdal, and the Bogazi would have hammered out some kind of a consensus.
When he took the assignment, Sten had envisioned working out a situation that would have led to such a consensus government. He had hoped at least to build a scaffold others could stand on to hammer up a building.
Instead . . . Instead, Sten had clottin’ Iskra to deal with. What kind of drakh was in his boss’s mind?
Sten pulled himself back from irritation. No good to beat up on the boss’s decisions. The Emperor might be eternal, but he had never claimed to be perfect. If Sten wanted him to choose a wiser course, Sten would have to help.
The driver signaled. They were approaching the Suzdal embassy, Sten’s first stop. It was the first step in his plan to build an outside consensus.
As he looked out the window, one third of that plan went into the crapper.
The Suzdal embassy was empty. Some young Tork ruffians were combing through piles of hastily abandoned personal articles.
Sten slid out of the gravcar. The young beings spotted him and tensed, ready to flee. Sten waved away his security force, which had quickly piled out of its own vehicles. He walked casually up to the kids.
“Good pickings?” he asked the taller one, guessing that size might have something to do with leadership.
“Whotsit to ya?” the smallest of the Torks snarled. So much for guessing. This was not one of Sten’s better days.
“Better question,” Sten said. “What’s it to you?”
He fished out some credits and flashed them before glittering little eyes. The little Tork snatched. Sten yanked his hand back.
He nodded, indicating the embassy. “Where’d they go?”
“Clottin’ home is where they went. Whaddya think?” The kid glared at the money, lips compressed. Sten crossed the young Tork’s palm with a few credits.
“Tell me more,” Sten said. “Start with when they left.”
“Three, four hours ago,” the kid said. “We was playin’ down the street, when all of a sudden there’s this big clottin’ bust-up. Suzdal yappin’ and yippin’ way they do. Gravlighters and Suzdal soldiers all over. ‘Fore we knew it, they had the whole place packed up and they was gone.”
Sten fed the kitty with a few more credits. “Anybody after them?”
“Nope. And nobody showed up later, either. Suzdal left on their ownsome all right. And they weren’t talkin’ scared, neither.”
“What were they talking about?” Sten asked, handing over more filthy lucre.
“Killin’ Bogazi, whoddya think?” The young Tork was clearly astonished at Sten’s woeful ignorance. “We snuck in close, see? Checkin’ drakh out for anything valuable they might be leavin’ behind.
“We heard the pack leader talkin’ to the crooked leg whot runs the militia. Said there was a big fight comin’. With the Bogazi. That’s why they was goin’ home. To help with the fight.”
The kid looked up at Sten. His eyes were old. “I figure the Suzdal ain’t got a chance,” he said. “They’re mean. But the chickens are meaner. Whatcha think? Suzdal or Bogazi?”
Sten handed over the rest of the credits. “Do you care?”
“Clot no! Just tryin’ to figure the odds. The money’s on the Bogazi in our neighborhood. Ten to one. Thought maybe you’d tell me somethin’ so I could shave ‘em some. Get down some serious action.”
He waved the fistful of bribe money in Sten’s face. “Way I figure,” the kid said, “guy’s just gotta get a bet down any chance he gets. I mean, a person could be runnin’ around lucky all day and never know it. If you know what I mean.”
“I certainly do,” Sten said. He left, thinking even less of his chances than before.
“My vision is a simple one, General,” Iskra said. “But I think you’ll agree that simplicity of concept is the first definition.”
“Without question,” General Douw said. “This is one of your attributes I have admired from afar for years. You see a thing, a complex thing, and then with a little rearranging it is no longer complex. It is simple. It is real. It is genius.” Douw didn’t have the faintest idea what he was saying. It didn’t matter. The general was an expert at flattery. He sipped at the water Iskra had given him as refreshment — pretended to savor it as if it were wine.
“It’s like this glass of water,” he said, grabbing for any kind of analogy at all. “I see water, but you see . . .” His brain slipped a cog. What the clot did Iskra see? Maybe he just saw water. Personally, Douw could see a green-skinned amphibian. One that went croak, croak, croak.
“Yes. Go on,” Iskra said. “What do I see, General?”
“A symbol,” Douw gasped out. “That’s it! Symbolism. Now who but a genius could see symbolism in a simple glass of water?” He quickly checked Iskra’s face to see how this bit of verbal dancing had gone down. The doctor was beaming and nodding. Whew. Thank God.
“You strike for the heart of the matter, as always,” Iskra said. “This is why I felt I needed you. I knew I would find a kindred spirit.”
“Absolutely,” Douw said, brushing back his silver locks with a nervous hand. “No question about it.”
What an old fool, Iskra thought. “You are perhaps the most respected individual in the military, General,” he said.
“Why, thank you.”
“It is only the truth. You have a reputation for loyalty. And as a fierce defender of Jochi tradition.”
“The old ways were best,” Douw said. This was a subject he could warm to quickly. “Sometimes I think the old values have been put aside too hastily.”
“That is exactly my vision,” Iskra said. “It is?”
“Of course. But it will take harsh measures to return us to the glory days of our Jochi forefathers.”
“True. How true. Unfortunate. But true.”
“However, I certainly do not wish you to become involved in the real unpleasantness. There are things that need to be done that I fear would tarnish the reputation of a true Jochi soldier. I will have . . . Special Duty units trained and outfitted for these tasks, and they will be responsible directly to me, and outside the military’s usual chain of command.”
Douw beamed. “How perceptive of you, sir.”
“However, I wish you to command my conventional forces in the struggle to bring peace to our glorious cluster. It will require cool thinking, and unshakable purpose.”
“Then I am your man,” Douw said. “And thank you for the honor.”
“When our people first came to this cluster,” Iskra continued, “they were faced with a hostile territory filled with ignorant species and a barbarian breed of humans.”
“Terrible times. Terrible,” Douw babbled. “There were not so many of us, then.”
“How true. I’ve always said that myself. Not many of us in those days. But we made up for numbers with bravery.”
“And one other thing,” Iskra said.
“Right. That other thing. It was — uh —”
“Wit,” Iskra said.
“That’s it. Wit. Was on the tip of my tongue.”
“To suppress those beasts — I’m sorry, I’m not with the modernists. They are beasts. Nothing more. To suppress those beasts, our ancestors adopted a tactic summed up by a simple, elegant phrase. The phrase and all it stands for, I believe, is a vital part of Jochi heritage.”
“I know the answer,” Douw said, “but your words are much finer than mine. Please say it for both of us.”
“Divide and conquer,” Iskra said. “We brought the beasts to their knees by that simple ploy. Our forefathers inflamed the Suzdal and Bogazi. And the Torks, as well. And we put them at each other’s throats.
“We even made a tidy profit selling arms to all sides. We let them kill each other. And then we stepped in to rule.”
“By God, we should do the same thing now!” Douw smacked fist into palm, his patriotic heart aflutter. “Divide and conquer. A return to hallowed tradition.”
“Then . . . you’ll accept the post I’m offering?”
“With pride, sir,” Douw boomed. “With pride.” He wiped a manly tear from the corner of an eye.
Menynder had a shabby little walled estate in the center of a Tork neighborhood.
Sten’s professional eye noted that the shabby look was carefully cultured. The walls were chipped and vine-covered. The big entry gate was old and sagging. The garden just inside the gates was overgrown. But the security wire circling the walls was bright and new. The gate was reinforced with steel. And the garden invasion was proofed with thorny hedges or saw-toothed ferns.
Menynder’s intelligence profile showed that he had money. Heaps of it, for a Tork. But he was careful not to flaunt it. Just as he had been careful to quickly make himself scarce the moment the drakh hit the fan.
“I’m in mourning,” Menynder explained as he cast the fishing line into the green waters of the pool.
Sten sat beside him on the banks of the pond. The rain had turned to baking hot sunshine. But it was cool here under the tree that shaded the old Tork’s favorite fishing spot. Menynder reeled in the line, checked the bait and lure, and made another cast.
“A death in the family? I’m very sorry to hear that,” Sten said.
Menynder removed his glasses, dabbed at nonexistent tears, and replaced the glasses. “It was a young cousin . . . He died at Pooshkan.”
Sten started to say he was sorry again, but caught a cynical glint in Menynder’s eye. “How close was this cousin?” he asked instead.
Menynder grinned. “I don’t know — seventh, eight removed. We weren’t very close. Still, it was a shock.”
“I can only imagine,” Sten said.
“I’m so shaken,” Menynder continued, “that I fear it will be at least a year before I can show my face in public again.”
“Do you really think the Altaics will calm down by then?” Sten asked.
“If it doesn’t,” Menynder said, “I’ll have a relapse. Grief is a sneaky disease. It comes and goes. Comes and goes.” He reeled in his line, then cast it out.
“Like a fever,” Sten said.
“Yeah. Without the trouble of symptoms. A man can grieve and fish at the same time.”
“Funny thing about fishing/’ Sten said, “is that you look wonderfully purposeful. No one ever bothers a person when he’s fishing.”
“I get the idea I’m not the only one fishing here, Sr. Ambassador,” Menynder said. He tried another spot in the pond.
“I guess I’m just trying to think of the right bait,” Sten said.
Menynder gave a firm shake of his head. “Forget it. There aren’t enough credits and honors to draw me out. I’ve lived a long life. I’d like to finish it out naturally.”
“Hard thing to accomplish these days,” Sten said.
“Isn’t that the truth.” Menynder’s line tangled in debris. He gave a flip of the rod and shook it loose. “Frankly, I don’t see that it will get better. Not in my lifetime.”
“It’ll be solved,” Sten said firmly. “One way or the other.”
“I assume you have plans for me being involved in the solution?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You’re probably thinking that because I was fool enough to stick my neck out.”
“You got some beings talking together whose normal reactions are to fight instead.”
“I used to think I was good at that sort of thing,” Menynder said. He reeled in the line three clicks.
“You still are. From where I sit.”
“Rotten, useless talent. If a talent it even is. Personally, I think I’m just a clottin’ good liar.”
“Some big things are going to be coming down,” Sten said. “A long time ago — under similar circumstances — I advised a being like you to get out of the line of fire. I told him the best thing to do was develop a good hacking cough.”
“Did he take your advice?”
“He did.”
“Did he live?”
“He did. He also prospered.”
“But — you want me to do just the opposite?”
“Yeah.”
“You gave the other guy better advice.”
“That was then. This is now.”
“No offense, Sr. Sten, but I don’t have the awesome majesty of an Imperial appointment to protect me. I’ve got squat for security. Even if I did, this is the first place the good doctor would send the battalions with the jackboots and clubs.”
“You don’t think Iskra is going to work out either?”
“Clot, no! What really slays me is that I once mentioned his name myself. Favorably. Tell your boss he fouled this one up good. But don’t quote me. I’d rather skip the attention, if it’s okay with you.”
