Chris Bunch & Allan Cole - Sten 7 - Vortex

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Vortex

by Chris Bunch & Allan Cole

"When your fear cometh as desolation, and your destruction cometh as a whirlwind;

when destruction and anguish cometh upon you.

—Proverbs 1:27

BOOK ONE

CONVECTION

CHAPTER ONE

The Square of the Khaqans brooded under storm clouds knuckled black in the sky. A

weak sun crept through those clouds, picking out flashes of gold, green, and red from

the towering buildings and domes.

The square was immense: twenty-five square kilometers solid with gaudy buildings,

the official heartbeat of the Altaic Cluster. On the western edge was the lace-pattern fan

of the Palace of the Khaqans—home to the old and angry Jochian who had ruled over

the cluster for a hundred and fifty years. For seventy-five of those years the man had

labored on this square, lavishing billions of credits and being-hours. It was a monument

to himself and his deeds—both real and imagined. Almost as an afterthought there was

a small shrine park in a forgotten corner of the square in memory of his father, the first

Khaqan.

The square sat in the center of Jochi's capital, Rurik. Everything in this city was

huge; the inhabitants were forever scurrying about, reduced in scale and spirit by the

size of the Khaqan's vision.

Rurik was quiet this day. Humid streets emptied. Beings huddled in their tenements

for mandatory viewing of the events about to unfold on their livie screens. All across the

planet Jochi it was the same.

In fact, on all the habitable worlds of the Altaic Cluster humans and ETs alike had

been cleared from the streets by loudspeaker vehicles and ordered into their dwellings

to punch up the livie cast. Small red eyes at the bottom of the screens monitored their

required rapt attention. Security squads were posted in every neighborhood, ready to

kick in the door and haul away any being whose attention flagged.

At the Square of the Khaqans itself, three hundred thousand beings had been

ordered in for public witness. Their bodies formed a black smear around the edges of

the square. The heat from the living mass rose in waves of steam and drifted up into the

menacing clouds. The only movement was a constant nervous shifting. There was not

one sound from the crowd. Not the cry of a child or a cough from an Old One.

Heat lightning branched over the four gilded pillars that marked each end of the

square and the enormous statues honoring Altaic heroes and deeds hunched over it.

Thunder boomed and echoed under the clouds. Still the crowd held its silence.

Troops were formed up in the center of the square, weapons at ready, eyes scanning

the crowd for any sign of danger.

At their backs loomed the Killing Wall.

A sergeant barked orders, and the execution squad clanked forward, walking

heavily under the burden of twin tanks strapped to each being's back. Flex hose ran

from the tanks to a two-meter-long tube held by each squad member.

Another order, and hands sheathed in thick fireproof gloves flexed the triggers of

the flamethrowers. Molten fire dripped from the ends of the tubes. Gloved fingers

tightened, and a howl rent the air as flame exploded out and against the Killing Wall.

The squad held the triggers back for a terrible moment of heat and acrid smoke.

The flames hammered at the wall in heavy waves. At the sergeant's signal, the fire

stopped.

The Killing Wall was unmarked, except for the deep red glow of superheated metal.

The sergeant spat. The spittle exploded as it touched the wall. He turned and smiled.

The execution squad was ready.

A sudden squall erupted, drenching the crowd and sending up hissing clouds of

steam from the wall. It stopped as quickly as it had begun, leaving the crowd miserable

in the humid atmosphere.

There was a nervous buzz here and there. Among so many beings, fear can keep the

silence only so long.

"This is the fourth time in as many cycles," a young Suzdal yipped to his pack mate.

"Every time the Jochi police come hammering on the door to call us out to the square, I

think, this time they're coming for us." His little snout was wrinkled back with fear,

exposing sharp, chattering teeth.

"It's nothing to do with us, dear," his pack mate said. She rubbed the thick furred

hump that protruded above her muzzle against the adolescent male, spreading soothing

hormone. "They only want the black marketeers."

"But all of us do it," the frightened Suzdal yipped. "There's no other way to live.

We'd all starve without the black market."

"Hush, someone will hear," his pack mate warned. "This is human doings. As long

as they're killing Jochians or Torks, we mind our own business."

"I can't help it. It feels like what some humans call Judgment Day. Like we're all

doomed. Look at the weather. Everybody's talking about it. No one's seen anything like

it. Even the Old Ones say it's never been like this on Jochi. Freezing cold one day.

Blistering hot the next. Snow storms. Then floods and cyclones. When I woke this

morning, I thought it smelled like spring outside. Now look." He pointed at the heavy

black storm clouds overhead.

"Now, don't get yourself overwrought," his pack mate said. "Not even the Khaqan

can control the weather."

"He's going to get to us eventually. And then…" The young Suzdal shuddered. "Do

you know one being who has been executed yet who was really guilty? Of anything…

big?"

"Of course not, dear. Now, be quiet. It'll be over with… soon." And she rubbed

more hormone into his fur. Soon the chattering teeth were still.

There was a crash and a boom and howl of music over the great loudspeakers, so

loud that the foliage in the scattered parks of the square shivered with the beat. The

gold-robed Khaqan Guard trotted, spear formation, out of the palace. At the apex of the

spear was a floating platform bearing the Khaqan on his high-back, gilded throne.

The whole group quick-marched to a position just near the Killing Wall. The

platform settled to the ground.

The old Khaqan peered about him with suspicious, rheumy eyes. He wrinkled his

nose at the close smell of the crowd. An ever-attentive privy aide caught the gesture and

sprayed the Khaqan with his favorite sweet-scented incense. The old man pulled a

decorated flask of methquill from his belt, uncorked it, and took a long drink. It

quick-fired through his veins. His heart raced and his eyes cleared along with his

enthusiasm.

"Bring them out," he barked. It was an old, shrill sound, but it put the fear of the

cowardly gods who tended this place into his servants.

Orders were whispered down the line. In front of the Killing Wall, metal hissed on

oiled bearings, and a dark hole yawned. There was a hum of machinery, and a wide

platform rose up to fill the hole.

There was a long, audible shudder from the crowd when they saw the prisoners

standing there in their chains, blinking in the dim light. Soldiers hustled forward and

prodded the forty-five men and women to the wall. Metal bands emerged from the wall

and clamped them into place.

The prisoners looked at the Khaqan with stunned eyes. He took another pull on his

flask and giggled with the heat of the methquill.

"Get on with it," he said.

The black-robed inquisitor stepped forward and began reading the names and

confessions of each of the assembled felons. Their list of crimes boomed over the

loudspeakers: Conspiracy to profit… Hoarding of rationed goods… Theft from the

markets of the Jochi elite… Abuse of office to profit… On and on it went.

The old Khaqan frowned at each charge, then nodded and smiled at each

disposition of guilt.

Finally it was done. The Inquisitor slid the charge fiche into its sleeve and turned to

await the Khaqan's decision.

The old man sipped at his flask, then keyed his throat mike. His shrill, raspy voice

filled the square and buzzed on the livies in the billions of homes in the Altaic Cluster,

"As I look at your faces, my heart is moved with pity," he said. "But I am also

ashamed. All of you are Jochians… like myself. As the majority race in the Altaics, it is

for the Jochians to point the way. By good example. What are our fellow humans, the

Tork, to think when they hear of your evil deeds? Much less our ET subjects, with their

looser grip of morality. Yes…What do the Suzdal and the Bogazi think when you

Jochians—my most prized subjects—flaunt the law and endanger our society by your

greed?

"These are terrible times, I know. All those long years of war with the filthy Tahn.

We suffered and sacrificed—and, yes, died—in that war. But no matter how heavy our

burden, we stood by the Eternal Emperor.

"And later—when we believed him slain by his enemies—we struggled on, despite

the unfair burdens placed on us by the beings who conspired to assassinate him and

rule in his place.

"During each of these emergencies, I asked your help and your sacrifice to keep our

lovely cluster safe and secure until the Emperor's return. As I believed he would, all the

time.

"Finally, he came. He disposed of the evil privy council. Then he looked around to

see who had remained steadfast in his absence. He found me—your Khaqan. As strong

and loyal a servant as I have been for nearly two centuries. And he saw you—my

children. And he smiled. From that moment on, the Anti-Matter Two flowed again.

Our factories were alight once more. Our star-ships soared to the great market places of

the Empire.

"But all is still not well. The Tahn wars and the actions of the traitorous privy council

have sorely tested the Eternal Emperor's resources. And ours as well. We have years of

hard work ahead of us before life can be normal and prosperous.

"Until that time comes, we must all continue to sacrifice the comforts of the present

for the glorious life of the future. All of us are hungry now. But at least there is food

enough to sustain. Our AM2 allotment is more than most, thanks to my close

friendship with the Emperor. But it is only enough to keep commerce alive."

The Khaqan paused to wet his throat with methquill. "Greed is the greatest crime in

our small kingdom now. For in these times, isn't greed nothing more than murder on a

mass scale?

"Every grain you steal, every drop of drink you sell on the black market, comes

from the mouths of children, who will certainly starve if greed is left unchecked. The

same for our precious AM2 supplies. Or the minerals for tools to rebuild our industry,

and the synthcloth that keeps us from the elements.

"So it is with a heavy heart that I sentence you. I have read the letters from your

friends and loved ones, begging my mercy. I wept over each one. I really did. They told

a sad tale of beings gone wrong. Beings who have listened to the lies of our enemies, or

fell into callous company."

The Khaqan wiped a nonexistent tear from rimless eyelids. "I have mercy enough

for all of you. But it is a mercy I must withhold. To do otherwise would be criminally

selfish of me.

"Therefore I am forced to sentence you to the most disgraceful death known, as an

example to any others who are foolish enough to be tempted by greed.

"I can allow only one small concession to self-weakness. And I hope my subjects

forgive me this, for I am very old and easily moved to pity."

He leaned forward in his chair as the livie camera dollied in until his face filled one

side of the screen for the viewers at home. It was a mask of compassion. On the other

side of the screen were the forty-five doomed beings.

The Khaqan's voice whispered harshly. "To each and every one of you… I'm sorry."

He cut the throat mike and turned to his privy aide. "Now, get this over with quick.

I don't want to be out here when the storm breaks." And he eased his old bones back

into the throne to watch.

Orders were shouted, and the execution squad took up position. Flamethrower

barrels were raised. The crowd drew a long breath. The prisoners hung dully against

their bonds. Thunder crashed overhead from the clouds.

"Do it," the Khaqan snarled.

The flamethrowers roared into life. Solid sheets of fire burst out at the Killing Wall.

In the crowd some beings turned away.

A Suzdal pack leader named Youtang barked in disgust. "It's the smell that gets me

most," she yipped. "Puts me off my rations. Everything tastes like cooked Jochians."

"Humans smell bad enough without being parboiled," her assistant leader agreed.

"When the Khaqan started these purges," Youtang said, "I thought, so what? There's

so many Jochians, maybe it'll thin their ranks some. Leave more for us Suzdal. But he

kept at it. And I got worried. Pretty soon, he's going to have to start looking elsewhere

for his examples."

"He thinks the Bogazi are stupidest, so they'll probably be last," her assistant said.

"We'll be purged just before them. The Torks are human, so if he sticks to whatever it is

he calls logic, they're probably next."

"Speaking of Torks," Youtang said, "I see one worried-looking friend of ours over

there." She said " friend of ours" with disgust. "Look. It's Baron Menynder. Jabbering at

some other human. Jochian, by the cut of his clothes."

"It's General Douw," her assistant yipped, excited.

The Suzdal pack leader pondered for a moment. The human she was looking at was

a short, squat being with a pure bald head. The beefy face was ugly enough to belong to

a thug, but Baron Menynder affected spectacles that made his brown eyes large, wide,

and innocent.

"Now, what would the Khaqan's defense secretary be doing talking with Menynder?

Couldn't be professional advice, even though Menynder had the same job once. But

he's past it now. His time was four or five defense secretaries back. The Khaqan fired or

killed all the rest. Clot, that Menynder is a canny old being," Youtang mused almost to

herself. "Got out just in time. And he sticks to his own business and keeps his head

low."

She studied the situation a little longer, getting a closer look at General Douw. The

Jochian appeared an ideal general, well over two and a half meters high. He was sleek

and athletic, at least next to the tubby Menynder. His silver-gray locks fitted his head

like a tight helmet, in stark contrast to Menynder's bald pate.

"Douw must be liking what he's hearing," the Suzdal pack leader finally said.

"Menynder's been going nonstop since we started watching."

"Maybe the old Tork is feeling extra mortal these days," her assistant said. "Maybe

he has a plan. Maybe that's what the discussion is all about."

The work at the Killing Wall was done. There were only ashes where the

condemned had once stood. At the western edge of the square, the Suzdals could see

the Khaqan and his guards disappearing into the lacy palace. In the center, the soldiers

were being formed up and marched off a platoon at a time.

Youtang watched the two humans in deep discussion. An idea stirred. "I think we

should join them," she said. "One thing about Menynder is that he's a clotting great

survivor. Come on. If there's a way out of this alive, I don't want the Suzdal to be left

behind."

The two beings edged through the crowd.

The storm broke. Shouts of pain and terror echoed across the square as hailstones

hammered out of the clouds, bursting like shrapnel.

The loudspeakers blared dismissal, and the crowd erupted out of the square.

Menynder and General Douw hurried away together. But by the time they reached

the main gate, the two Suzdals had caught up with them. The four paused in the shelter

of an enormous statue of the Khaqan at the edge of the gate. A few words were

exchanged. Then nods of agreement. A moment later the four hurried off together.

The conspiracy had been launched.

CHAPTER TWO

"An aperitif, m'lord?" a voice purred in Sten's ear. Sten brought himself back to reality,

realized he'd been preening like an Earth peacock in front of the oak-framed mirror on

the wall, and covered a blush.

The. owner of the voice was female, black haired, invitingly constructed and

costumed, and was holding a tray of fluted glasses. The flutes contained a black, slightly

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 Earthdiamond 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 will be presented in descending order of merit. A subordinate will

announce each category.

"When your award is called, you will form a single line here, at the entrance. When

the annunciator"—Bleick indicated a being in red flummoxry—"announces your name,

you will enter the main chamber. You will walk directly forward approximately

seventeen steps, where you will see a line graven on the floor.

"The Emperor will be standing on the far side of that line.

"If you are the only recipient of an award, stop directly in front of the Eternal

Emperor. If you are one of a group, proceed directly to the line and stop next to the

nearest being on your left.

"Please stand at attention.

"An Imperial aide will read the citation for your award. A second aide will physically

give you the award, either on a sash or she will pin it directly to your uniform. If there is

an error, please try to cover any pained reaction. The ceremonies are, of course, being

taped for subsequent broadcast to your home worlds.

"Additional copies, I might add, may be secured through my office at a reasonable

fee.

"There are no scheduled recipients for any of the Imperial Privy Household Orders.

The next ranking are hereditary awards: dukedoms, baronetcies, and the like. Those

who are receiving one of those…"

"Hereditary," Sten breathed in surprise. His lips did not move, nor did his voice

reach beyond Mason's ears. It was a talent learned in military formations and prisons.

Mason, too, had the talent: "The Eternal Emperor has seen fit to find many new and

unique patterns to reward those who serve him well." His voice was quite devoid of

irony.

"But—"

"Not only does it please the red-tape bastards," Mason said, "but their bureaucratic

bosses, as well."

The disapproval both men felt never showed on either's face. But strong sentiments

did materialize a few meters away.

Chris Bunch & Allan Cole - Sten 7 - Vortex

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