Death Match, page 81
part #3 of Sten Omnibus Series
The Emperor didn’t think this would happen. Poyndex was ambitious. Supremely so. But he wasn’t the kind who desired the spotlight. He’d prefer to rule from the shadows. From behind the throne.
Still…his goal is to rule, isn’t it? To make the Emperor his helpless puppet?
The Emperor decided then what Poyndex’s fate would be. But he would wait just a little longer.
A great deal more blood needed to be shed. And when it was done, he would need a fall guy.
To the Eternal Emperor, Poyndex looked like the perfect Judas goat.
Chapter Thirty-one
“EACH TIME I pick up a new trail,” Cind said, “I think, This is it. Now I’ve finally got the S.O.B.”
Cind picked up beach sand and then let it fall in a gentle stream. “But then I hit a dead end and that bastard wins again. I can almost hear him laughing at me.”
“You’re not alone,” Haines said. “I’ve fine-toothed Mahoney’s files and come up with a lot of great leads. But they all peter out before I’m barely started. Makes me feel like a clottin’ rookie.”
“I still think this is the right way to go,” Sten insisted. “I’m convinced this is the quickest—and least bloody—way to defeat him. Once we learn where the Emperor gets his AM2, then we can go for his throat.”
“No one’s ever done it before,” Cind said. “Imperial history’s littered with failures. Look what happened to Kyes.”
Silence overcame the small group. They were sprawled on one of Nebta’s gentle beaches. The day was cozy. The waves lapped softly at the shore. Flying creatures soared above the water, crying their lonely cries.
But the beauty of the day was lost to the conspirators.
Except for one. The gentle giant who was Raines’s husband—Sam’l. He was listening to their talk with interest, but a part of his mind kept free. To soar with the flying creatures.
“Discovery is a remarkable thing,” he said, a little dreamily. “There are stirring tales of beings who have dared and suffered much to succeed in their quest. I read those tales when I was a boy. It’s probably why I became an archaeologist. So I could have adventures of my own.”
Sten smiled. He quite liked this big, shambling man. And he had learned to listen with patience. Because Sam’l always had a point.
“And did you?” Sten asked.
“Oh, yes. Many. I shall bore you with them some night over more wine than is good for me. Because that’s all they are good for…polite conversation.
“In fact, some of the greatest discoveries are found in museum basements. Incredible things. Astounding thoughts. Dumped in a heap to wait for several centuries until some bored student happens to paw through the mess.”
“You’re saying the answer is probably right in front of us,” Sten said.
“Something like that,” Sam’l answered. “Perhaps we just have to hold up what we already know. Turn it this way and that. Until we find the proper light to view it in.”
“Where should we start?” Cind asked.
“Why not start with the element itself?” Sam’l said. “Anti-Matter Two.”
“If it were gold, or iron, or even Imperium X,” Cind said, “we’d have a pretty good idea where to look. We’d have the laws of planetary geology and three or four other sciences to go by.”
“That’s interesting all by itself,” Haines said. “In other words—Anti-Matter Two has no counterpart in nature.”
“Possibility one,” Cind said, “is that AM2 comes from someplace in the universe that has yet to be found. By anyone except for the Emperor, that is. But that’s sort of the assumption I’ve been going on. And that hasn’t gotten me anywhere except very old, very cold trails.”
“What about another universe?” Sam’l the dreamer suggested. “An alternate universe? That would explain why its structure has no counterparts in nature as we know it.”
“I don’t mean to be a wet blanket,” Sten said, “but it was my impression that everyone who’s dabbled in alternate-universe theory was pretty much of a strange-o. And that modern science agrees no such thing exists.”
Haines stirred. “Mahoney had something in his files about that,” she said. “I didn’t pay much attention at the time.”
“What did he have to say?” Sten asked.
“Nothing specific,” Haines said. “Except he thought it was pretty interesting that the Emperor has always seemed to go out of his way to quash any research on alternate-universe theory. According to Mahoney, some very prominent scientists had their wings clipped for venturing into that area.”
“Maybe I’d better wake up,” Sten said, “and start paying more attention to some of Ian’s weirder ideas.”
“Like the immortality business?” Haines laughed.
“Yeah. Exactly like that. Maybe one has something to do with the other.”
“I like it,” Sam’l said. “One answer for two. That always makes for an elegant solution.”
“That’s what Kyes was after,” Cind said. “And he came pretty close.”
“I don’t know what hat the Emperor pulls his rabbit out of,” Sten said. “He dies. He comes back. I’ll ignore Haines’s bit of intelligence that this time around maybe we’re not dealing with exactly the same person. Just for a time, we’ll put that aside, and stick to what we know.
“One…Each time he disappears, according to Mahoney, he’s gone for about three years. It was six this last time, but I think we should put that aside as a one-time break in the record.
“Anyway, for three years no one hears or sees anything of him. Which means he must have a hideout. A hideout so secure that no one has found it for—I hate to say this—a couple of thousand years.
“Two… Anti-Matter two comes from a place equally secure. Equally hidden. The privy council found out how well hidden it was, to their extreme bad luck.”
“It would be stupid to use two different places to accomplish pretty much the same thing,” Cind said.
“One thing the Emperor isn’t,” Haines said, “is stupid.”
“So if we find one,” Sten said, “then that should give us the other.”
“Are we still considering the possibility of an alternate universe?” Sam’l asked.
Sten shrugged. “Good as anything else.”
“Actually, for our purposes it’s far better than most things,” Sam’l said. “The Emperor would need an entrance and an egress. A door, so to speak. A gateway between universes.”
“Yeah?” Sten looked at him. Blank.
“If I recall my undergraduate physics,” Sam’l said, “the kind of gateway we are discussing would cause a disturbance in the cosmic background. A discontinuity, I believe it is called.”
Sten got it. He said, “Finally, we’re talking about something you can measure. Instead of never-never lands and spooky supposition. If there’s a blip in the cosmic background, we have a chance of finding it.”
“Except, we don’t know which way to look,” Haines pointed out. “It’s a big sky. We could spend a lot of forevers checking it out, bit by bit.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Cind said. They all looked at her. Praying for a break.
“There were several places Kyes was interested in he hadn’t checked out yet,” she said. “They were areas Kyes suspected might be safehouses on the path the Emperor takes when he returns. All my own progs confirm he was correct to suspect them. They fit the profile.”
“I think we should correlate your stuff with Mahoney’s,” Haines told Cind. “Ian was working a lot of the same angles.”
“Good idea,” Cind said. She smiled at Haines. She quite liked her. And as Sten’s former lover, Haines reflected well on Cind’s own good taste.
“If this were a homicide case,” Haines continued, “which this is, in an awful sort of way—once I figured out where the crime was plotted, I’d tie into the com lines. Bug the clot out of the place. And wait for the suspect to call. When he did, all I’d have to do is trace it.”
“Sticking to your analogy, my love,” Sam’l said, stroking his wife’s hand, “I’d guess you wouldn’t have to wait. The line would be continuously open, assuming that everyone’s theories dovetail. The Emperor would need to maintain communication with his hideout…and…Darling, have you ever noticed you’ve now got me talking like some kind of livie cop? Also, wouldn’t there be some kind of open link to a relay station, like the one Kyes evidently came to grief at? There must be more than one of those—the Emperor doesn’t depend on chance any more than, say, Schliemann did.”
Sten forced calm. He didn’t want to jinx the moment. “It’s at least worth checking out,” he said.
“It’s better than that,” Cind said. “All my instincts are ringing bells that this is the way to go.”
“Go with them, then,” Haines said. “Instinct is what separates the rookies from the pros.”
Sam’l broke into the flow in his hazy, dreamy way. “I keep wondering,” he said, “what our lives would be like if AM2 could be copied and manufactured—like many of the common elements. How different things might have turned out, if you could brew it up as easily as our hosts, the Bhor, brew stregg.”
His lips curved into irony. “But I suppose it’s highly unlikely such a thing is possible. To actually synthesize AM2, I mean. My college text, if I recall correctly, said even if this were a possibility, the expense would make the whole thing an exercise in futility.”
“Mahoney didn’t think so,” Haines said.
Sten jumped. “What?”
“I said, Mahoney didn’t think so. He had a lot of stuff in his files on synthetic AM2. Under the heading of Disinformation. I’ve only just started to go through them.”
She tapped her head, shaking her memory. “There was something in particular in one of the files. Something Mahoney wanted to bring to your attention.”
Sten nodded. She had shown him several items already that Mahoney had marked with an S so Sten would pay particular mind.
Haines smiled, remembering. “Oh, yeah. Something about a ‘Bravo Project.’” She looked at Sten. “Do you know what that means?”
Cind saw Sten draw back in shock. Saw his face drain of color. What was wrong? She reached over to touch his hand. It was cold.
“Yes,” Sten said. Grim. “I know what Bravo Project means.”
Then he saw the worry on Cind’s face. And Haines’s. Even the unflappable Sam’l’s brow was furrowed.
He forced cheer into his voice. “But I’ll have to do some doublechecking on my memory,” he said. “With Rykor.”
His insides were far from casual—Yeah, he had to see Rykor, all right.
About a nightmare.
He was back on Vulcan.
Karl Sten. A Mig kid turned Delinq with only hours to live before Thoresen’s exterminators tracked him down.
Bet was with him. So lovely. So young. And Oron. That odd, brainburned genius who knew only the present.
Mahoney loomed up at him. A much younger Mahoney. Strong and confident. But the adolescent Sten wasn’t sure he was to be trusted.
“I must have confirmation of Thoresen’s plan,” Mahoney said. “I’ve blue-boxed into the exec and central computers, and there was nothing on Bravo Project except inquiry-warning triggers.”
Bravo Project! There it was again. Sten felt a wrenching at his chest. A sob bubbled up, and broke.
Easy, Sten, came Rykor’s voice…It’s past. It’s over. It’s all been mourned…He felt a faint sting. Then calmness as the tranquil took affect. He heard faint scratching sounds. Rykor manipulating the keyboard. Coaxing up images. And Mahoney’s big, cheerful face was torn away…
One of Thoresen’s guards paced along his beat. Sten floated in behind him. His hand circled the man’s throat. His knife lunged forward. And he heard the gasp and felt life draining away. There was no remorse in him. Only an odd flicker of joy.
…Self-disgust welled. And then flooded over…So many deaths by his hand. Murders. Rykor’s soothing voice crept in: Let it go, my friend. Let it go.
But he couldn’t. The man was dead. Snuffed out. No better than an insect. Sten moaned—God, forgive me…and there was another sting…and the tranquil lies spread through his veins. And the image flipped to—
They were inside the Eye. Thoresen’s hidden safe revealed. Sten sprayed the touch lock. Liquid at Kelvin-Zero crystallized the steel. Bet stepped forward with a hammer and tapped. The metal shattered. The door came open. They were in! Sten felt the long-ago thrill. Looked up at Bet and Oron. Grinning like maniacs for beating Thoresen at his own game.
…Again, the sting of tranquil. Sten struggled against the terror that would follow. Shouted away the bat wings rustling in his darkest memories. The hammering of his heart eased. He took comfort in the sensation of the hard table under his body. The electrodes attached to his head, arms, and legs. He heard the splash of liquid. It was Rykor, shifting in her tank. No. There was nothing to fear. Trust Rykor. With Rykor operating the brainscan, he was safe. Sten let the images move on.
Flip. Flip.
Sten reached into Thoresen’s safe. Found the file amid the jumble of paper and bundles of Imperial credits. The folder. Thick and red. Titled: Bravo Project.
The images came slower now. Flip. Flip. Flip… Oron taking the folder. Flip! The papers spilling to the floor. Hip! And Sten was scrabbling for the papers. Stuffing them into the folder. No particular order… And he saw.. Flip! Oh, jesus, one of the Delinqs was falling…chest blasted away. And…
The image froze. Sten felt vomit rise. Heard Rykor mutter, Too far. reverse…Sten shuddered at the sting of the tranquil and—
Flip!
Back to the papers, scrabbling for them, slower. Flip! Slower… And he could see them, now. A page at a time. Flip! A title leaping up—RECREATIONAL AREA 26: A SUMMARY OF ACTIONS… Flip!
..Wait. Have to stop. Have to see… Go back. And Rykor’s voice called to him, It’s no good, Sten. Put it behind you. Go on… Sten refused. He fought the voice. The kind coaxing voice. A stinging sensation. And now there was the tranquil to fight.
Sten pushed the veil away. Forced the image forward. He was in control, dammit!
And the agony of Recreational Area 26 came tumbling back.
The Row.
Riotous voices. Barkers and shills plying their trade. Joyboys and joygirls out in force, emptying Mig pockets for Thoresen’s coffers. And there was more. Gambling machines hooting enticements. Drunks brawling. Sociopatrolmen charging into the melee, clubs swinging.
There were 1,385 beings on the Row that day.
Among them—
Sten felt a cry ofjoy burst from his lips. There was his father, Amos. His mother, Freed. And his brother and sister, Jobs and Ahd. He shouted. But they didn’t hear him.
Stop this, Sten, Rykor hissed. But he wouldn’t listen. Couldn’t listen…because he knew what was going to happen next…
Sten tried to shout for his family again. Fear clutched hard as his voice feathered into a whisper. He saw them enter the Row. Saw the big lobby doors shut tight behind them.
He stood there. Frozen. Waiting.
More voices.
“Then dump Twenty-six,” Thoresen said.
The tech protested, “But we’ve got almost fourteen hundred people—”
“You have your orders.”
Explosive bolts fired around the dome panels.
In sympathetic reaction, Sten’s body flailed against the operating table. At the brainscan’s controls, Rykor watched, helpless. If she interfered now, the damage would be so severe Sten would be fortunate to merely die.
Sten jumped again as he heard the typhoon roar of air blasting into space. And he was a forced witness—trapped by his own fool self—as…
Almost in slow motion, the escaping hurricane caught the shanty cubicles of the Row—and the people in them—and spat them through the holes into blackness.
He heard a tech’s voice: “Come on. They were only Migs.”
Then the chief tech: “Yeah. You’re right. That’s all they were.”
Sten wept.
Rykor worked over him for hours, using all her psychiatric skills as well as her vast pharmacopoeia to bring him back into something vaguely approaching normalcy.
Then she took him back. Past the nightmare of the Row. Back to Bravo Project.
And the secret Thoresen himself later died for.
The secret of synthetic AM2.
Sten huddled in a blanket. Sweat streamed from him, but he was cold. He felt as if he had been pried open, emptied out and discarded.
He took the mug Rykor offered, and sipped at thick, hot, nourishing broth. Rykor’s flipper brushed a control panel and soft music swelled. Cleansing music. He closed his eyes and let it wash over him for a long time.
Then he opened his eyes and took another drink. He saw Rykor’s large, empathetic eyes studying him.
Sten made a face. “Never again,” he croaked.
“I am very sorry, my dear friend,” Rykor said. Her rich voice gave meaning to empty words.
“Me, too,” Sten said. “At least…now we know. Not only is it possible to make AM2…but, we have the formula and procedure. I’m not a chemist, and it sounds like the process is a pain, and expensive as hell. But so what? Production cuts prices.”
He stopped, thinking.
“And this just turns the whole clotting universe around and around, doesn’t it? Or does it?”
“What do you intend to do with the knowledge?” Rykor asked.
“I’m not sure,” Sten said. “This changes a great many things.”
He lifted weary eyes to plead with Rykor. “Don’t say anything,” he said. “I need time to think.”
Rykor studied him. Thinking, He’s my friend. A trusted friend. But some secrets are worms that probe and spoil all goodness.
“If something happens to me,” Sten said, “you’ve got all the information. Do with it as you please.”
“Very well,” Rykor said. “I’ll wait.”
“Thanks,” Sten said, weak. Then his head slumped. Rykor’s flipper came out and lifted the mug away before it spilled.
