Vortex (Sten #7). Allan Cole
“Is that where we’re going? Alex said the AOR was classified.”
“It is. You can draw the area briefing fiche from Mr. Kilgour.”
Silence in the room. The old sexual tension between them warmed that silence. “You look well,” Sten said.
“Thank you. Since the last time I saw you, I decided I should become more familiar with civilian dress.”
Sten admired — she had done her homework. Cind, just past twenty, trim in the conservative four-piece suit, hair close-cropped, makeup just enough to enhance without being seen, would have been taken by most as a CEO of a top multiworld corporation.
No one could have seen — and few besides Sten would have theorized — that the heel on her dress flat was the haft to a hideout knife, that her pouch contained a miniwillygun, and that her necklace could do double duty as a garrote.
Cind eyed him. “Do you remember the first time we met?”
Sten gurgled stregg through his nostrils, a distinctly unpleasant sensation.
Cind laughed at his reaction. “No, not that time. Before . . . at the banquet. I was in the receiving line.”
“Uh . . .” Sten thought back. The woman — then girl — had worn . . . seemed to him she had just been wearing a uniform of some sort. But he felt he would be an utter ass if he so said.
“I wore walking out semidress,” she said. “But that wasn’t what I first chose.”
It was now Cind’s turn to look away, as she blushingly described the sleek sex-outfit she had paid nearly a campaign’s bonus for, put on, and then ripped off and thrown away.
“I looked like a clottin’ joygirl,” she said. “And . . . and later, I figured out all I really knew how to look like — how to be — was a soldier. Which also meant a soldier’s whore, I guess.”
And there it was again, Sten thought. For some reason Cind was able to say astonishing things to him, things that other women had only said deep in intimacy and after long knowledge. And it was the same for himself as well, Sten realized.
He also realized that he wanted to change the subject. “May I be formal?” he asked.
“You may, Admiral.”
“Not Admiral. This time around, I’m a civilian.”
“Very good.”
“Why so?”
Cind smiled once more. Oh, Sten thought. No chain-of-command drakh. No “It’s not military kosher to want to hold hands with a lower (higher) ranking soldier.”
“I am in a most uncomfortable position,” Cind said, stretching into a more comfortable position and thus placing Sten in a slightly uncomfortable position. “I am a major now.”
“Congratulations.”
“Perhaps. Would you like to meet my ranking private?”
Sten waited. Cind rose, went to an adjoining door, and opened it. “Private? Post!”
There was a sudden clashing of leather, and a creature lumbered into the chamber. Just 150 centimeters tall, it must have weighed around 150 kilograms — twenty more than the last time Sten had seen the horror. The creature’s knobbed hairy paws brushed against the ground, as did its enormous brush-tail beard, as the monster pushed its great trunk semierect and bellowed.
“By my mother’s beard,” came the shout. “Here are you two, ambassador and major, drinking all of the stregg, and leaving a poor, thirsty private, who loves you like a brother, to die of thirst, forlorn, abandoned in the outer darkness.”
“What,” Sten said, “in the name of my father’s — your father’s, hell, Cind’s father’s — frozen buttocks are you doing here, Otho?”
“I am but a simple soldier, following in the way of a warrior, as the great gods Sarla, Laraz, and — who the clot’s that other worthless godling? oh yes — Kholeric have told me.”
“He’s been into the stregg,” Sten said.
“He’s been into the stregg,” Cind agreed.
“Bring in the rest of the motley crew,” Sten said. “Buzz down for Kilgour. Tell him to have the kitchen stand by for a buffet in-chamber. Tell him to order up more stregg, some of that horrible stuff the Emperor calls Scotch, and, oh yes, indeed, a case of — hell, whatever goes into a Black Velvet. And get his butt in here with a good thirst. Now, Otho. How many goddamned Bhor do I have?”
“Only a hundred and fifty.”
“Oh, Lord,” Sten said. “And we’re still weeks from departure. Major Cind, have you arranged billets for your beings?”
“I have. There’s an entire wing set aside on a new officers’ quarters, just inside the Imperial grounds here. Set up for clean and black work.”
“So the Bhor won’t be able to get out and maim, pillage, and loot Prime?”
“With luck.”
“Good. Now, Private Otho. Pour us all a drink, and explain. Quickly.”
Sten needed an explanation, because when he had last been in Otho’s brawling company the being had been a chieftain, the ruler — if a Bhor could be said to rule anything save by acclamation — of the entire Lupus Cluster.
Now here he was as a rear-rank warrior, as if he were a young Bhor whose beard was yet to sprout.
“I didn’t know,” Sten said, after the third stregg, but before Kilgour and the rest of the Bhor had descended on him and sobriety vanished into the night, “you beings had second childhoods.”
“Don’t be a scrote,” Otho growled, refilling his horn. “First — the Lupus Worlds are at peace. Clotting well better be, if they don’t want to get killed.
“Which is good — I guess. But it is a meatless plate, my friend. Back then, back when we were being exterminated by the Jann, I never dreamed how boring peace can be. So I ran away to join the circus.”
He sighed — or Sten arbitrarily assigned the value of “sigh” to the alk- and stregg-laden gas blast that erupted from Otho’s bowels to typhoon across the table. “And I am becoming civilized.”
“Say clottin’ what?” Alex said as he entered, and Otho’s tale was interrupted by the obligatory roars, shouts, embraces, liquid kisses, and toasts that made a Bhor greeting synonymous with second-degree assault.
Then the Taittinger and Guinness arrived. Sten was forced to demonstrate Black Velvets to his guests. Otho said the stuff was weak mix for suckling babes. Alex preferred his Guinness straight from the pump and drunk in Eire. Cind touched her flute to Sten’s. They drank, and their eyes held the moment.
Then Sten brought the conversation back to some kind of a track. “Otho, you said being here had something to do with your becoming civilized.”
“By my father’s icy arse, so it does. Using human standards, even. If I am civilized . . . and a great leader — which, considering my beard is yet uncut, I may be — then I am now spending my wilderness years. Which I understand must be spent among primitive beings.
“I found a fiche recently, the biography of what, evidently, you humans consider a great being. His name was Illchurch, or some such. Now, when he had done his first stint as a leader, where did he spend his wilderness years?”
The Bhor chieftan gestured with his glass, sloshing drink over the edge. “I’ll tell you where. Among a primitive Earth tribe he called Americans. Since I could find no remnants of such a tribe, I decided to settle for what must be the second best primitives . . .”
Otho raised his glass in toast. “To the human race.”
CHAPTER FIVE