Vortex (Sten #7). Allan Cole
bubbling liquid. “Black Velvet,” she said. Indeed you are, Sten thought. But he said nothing, merely lifted an inquiring eyebrow.
“A combination of two Old Earth spirits,” she continued. “Earth champagne — Taittinger Blanc de Blancs — and a rare brewed stout from the island of Eire. Guinness, it is named.”
She paused and smiled — a most personal smile. “You should enjoy your stay here on Prime, Sr. Ambassador Sten. As a member of the household staff, it would be my disappointment were you to leave . . . dissatisfied.”
Sten took one glass, sipped, and said his thanks. The woman waited, found nothing further, smiled once more — a more formal smile — and passed on.
You are growing old, Sten thought. Once upon a time you would have admired, asked, and gotten either a turndown or an acceptance for later. Then you would have downed six glasses to stagger you through this idiotic ceremony. But you are now an adult. You do not get drunk because you think parades are foolishness. Nor do you leap for the first beautiful woman who presents herself.
Besides . . . that smiling servitor was certainly an Intelligence — Mercury Corps — operative who quite possibly outranked Admiral (Inactive-Reserve) Sten (NI).
Finally, at the moment he was not in the mood for a fling. Why not? While part of his brain puzzled, he tasted. Odd combination. He had tasted fermented and augmented effervescent grape juice before, although it had seldom been this dry. The other liquid — Guinness? — added a sharp, solid bash to the taste, not unlike a pugil stick to the head. Before he left Prime he would drink more of these, he resolved.
Sten moved back until his shoulders touched the wall — old habits as an Imperial assassin died hard — and looked about the monstrous chamber.
Arundel Castle rose triumphant over its own ruins. Built as the Eternal Emperor’s grandiose living quarters on the Imperial world of Prime, it had been destroyed by a tacnuke as part of the Tahn’s unique way of beginning a war sans preliminaries. During the ensuing Empire-wide battle, Arundel had remained in symbolic ruins, the Eternal Emperor headquartered in the vast warren under the desolation.
When the Emperor had been assassinated, Arundel had been left as a memorial by his killers. It had been rebuilt upon the Emperor’s return — even more lofty and looming than before.
Sten was in one of the castle’s antechambers. A waiting room. A waiting room that could have served handily as a hangar for a fleet destroyer.
The room was packed with fat cats, military and civilian, humanoid and otherwise. Sten glanced once more in the mirror and winced. “Fat cats” was slightly too apt a phrase. Now that you have finished the Emperor’s latest bidding, he thought, you need to get back in shape. That sash you were admiring but a minute before with all its decorations does accentuate a bit of a paunch, does it not? And the wingtip collar serves to give you another chin. Don’t you hope it’s the collar?
The hell with you, Sten told his backbrain. I am happy at the moment. Happy with me, happy with the world, happy with where I am.
He looked yet a third time in the mirror, returning to the train of thought interrupted by the servitor. Damn. I am still not used to seeing myself in diplomatic drag. Instead of some kind of uniform, or at least a disguise. This outfit, this archaic shirt, coat with a forked tail that stretches nearly to my ankles, these pants that reach down to shiny low-top boots . . . this is still strange.
He wondered what would happen if the Sten who was — that poor clottin’ orphan from that slave company world who was lucky and quick with a knife — looked into that mirror and it became that fictional favorite, a timescreen? What would that young Sten think as he peered into it, knowing he was looking at himself in years to come?
Years? Many more than he’d like to total.
What an odd wonderment. Especially here. Waiting on the pleasure of the Eternal Emperor, to be congratulated and awarded for service at the highest level.
Yes. What would that younger Sten think? Or say?
Sten grinned. Probably — other than ‘Why the clot didn’t you follow up with Black Velvet?’ — a grunt of relief. So. We’re clottin’ alive. Never thought we’d make it. Without thinking, his right hand moved over and touched the rich silk of his coat.
Under that — and under his diamond-studded shirtsleeve — was still the knife. Surgically hidden in his arm. Sten had built it — had grown it and then “machined” it on a biomill — as a slave laborer on Vulcan. It had been his first possession. The knife was a tiny, double-edged dart, contoured to fit no other hand but his. Needle-pointed, it could cut an Earth diamond in half with only blade pressure. It may have been the most deadly knife that man, with his infinite fascination with destruction, had ever built. It was kept in place by a surgically rerouted muscle.
But it had been more than a year, no, almost two years since it had been drawn in anger. Four wonderful years of peace, after a lifetime at war. Peace . . . and a growing sense in Sten that he was finally doing the task he was suited for. Something that did not involve —
“How correct,” a voice said in a flat, lethal monotone. “You always did remind me a bit of a pimp. I see you have become one. Or at least dress like one.”
Sten growled back to reality, arm dropping, fingers curling, the knife reflexing down into its killing slot; stepping away from the wall, left foot coming back, poised on toe, weight centered, slight crouch . . .
Clotting Mason.
Correction. Clotting Fleet Admiral Rohber Mason. In full dress whites, his chest a blaze of decorations, all of them well earned and probably no more than one-third of the hero buttons Mason deserved. He had never bothered to get that livid scar that ripped across his face removed. Sten figured he probably felt it added to his charm.
“Admiral,” Sten said. “How is the baby-slaughtering trade?”
“It goes well,” Mason retorted. “Once you learn to shorten your lead and range, it’s simple.”
Mason and Sten hated each other for no known reason. Mason had been one of Sten’s instructors back during flight school and had done his best to make sure Sten never graduated. Mason was considered by his students as an unmitigated bastard. The students were correct. And, unlike the livies, after graduation Mason’s heart of stone was not revealed as a pose. Under the granite was ten-point steel.
During the Tahn war Mason had risen to admiral. He had many qualities: He was brilliant. A tyrant. A master strategist. A killer. A brutal disciplinarian. A leader who backed his subordinates to the grave and beyond. For instance, when he was unable to find just cause to wash Sten out of flight school, he graduated him with the highest marks. Mason was possibly the best tac pilot in the Imperial Forces.
Second best, Sten’s pilot-ego growled.
Fiercely loyal to the Emperor, he had survived the privy council’s purges through luck and meanness. Now he was no doubt carrying out Imperial orders as he had in the past — efficiently and savagely. Yes, Sten thought, there had been peace. But only compared to the nightmare of the Tahn war. Beings still died.
“I heard you’d become the Emperor’s messenger boy,” Mason said. “Never could understand how a real being could stand living in a world where everything’s gray and there’s no truth.”
“I’ve gotten to like the color,” Sten said. “It doesn’t stain the hands as much as red. And it washes off.”
A booming voice broke the mutual glower. “Gentlebeings, your attention, please.” The buzz of polite diplomatic chatter died away.
“I am Grand Chamberlain Bleick.” The speaker was a ridiculously costumed, undersized being, speaking in the loudest smarmy twitter Sten had ever heard. Of course. He had a throat mike and porta boomer.
“We want to ensure that all of you noble ones receive the correct recognition, and that this ceremony proceeds as planned. Therefore, we must adhere to the following rules. The awards