Кристофер Банч - Vortex

"By my father's frozen buttocks, you're thick sometimes."

"Now y're cussin' a' me in y'r heathen Bhor tongue. No respect f'r y'r puir gray mentor. Shame, shame on y' lass.''

"Come on, Alex. How did he get into the palace? Why was he able to pick the best window to shoot from? How come he had all the time in the world to set up shop, find out where Sten would be sitting, plus create a diversion for his escape?"

"We hae a team pokin' 'n a probin' on th' dread plotters, wee Cind."

"No hope, there," Cind said. "Too many suspects. Too many possible combinations. They've got better chance at winning the Imperial lottery."

" 'N y're believin't y' c'n do better?"

Cind thought a moment, then nodded. "Sure. Because they're looking in the wrong direction. The guy was a pro. From his choice of positions, to that old rifle he chose as a weapon, down to the hand-molded bullets."

"Ho-kay. Yon dead shooter wae a pro. This is noo unusual i' a sniper. Wha' else is buggin't y'?" Despite himself, Kilgour was getting interested. Cind was maybe onto something.

"Two things. The first is personal. He was trying to kill Sten. Clot, he almost did!"

Kilgour knew this, tsked, and waved for the key point.

"What really gets me," Cind said, "was that he was the only sniper. Dammit, that makes no sense. Under the circumstances, there should have been a whole host of rooftop shooters. Or none. Not unless somebody wanted to be extra sure of exactly who died.

"Fine. We know he didn't have to go for Iskra. The coroner's report tells us the attack on the stands got him. But the same attack missed Sten. So… Wham! He tries to take him out. Thanks to you and your chain-mail tailor, it didn't work. But… still…"

Alex was thoughtful. "Aye… Thae hae t'be more."

"More of what?" came Mahoney's voice. "What trouble are you two cooking up?''

They whirled to see that Ian had entered the room. Cind was used to big beings moving silently. Look at Alex. Look at her Bhor comrades. But Mahoney still astonished her. It wasn't that he was just, well, getting on in years… But his large Irish body and round friendly face didn't look as if they belonged to someone who could cat around corners and into rooms.

She started to snap to attention and acknowledge her superior officer. Mahoney waved her down. "Just tell me what you two are plotting."

Cind filled him in on the mysterious sniper. Mahoney listened closely, then shook his head. "It's an interesting mystery, I agree,'' he said. "And the man was certainly a pro. Which means he was hired. Which also likely means whoever hired him would have had a cutout. Therefore, if you find out who the sniper is, that's all you'll learn. He even might be an interesting fellow, in an evil sort of way. But, I'm afraid in this case, x plus y can only equal: who cares?"

"I don't think so, sir," Cind said. "Not this time. And it's not a feeling, but an instinct. Professional instinct. See, when I was hunting him, I did my clotting best to try thinking like him."

"Naturally," Mahoney said. "Go on." The former Mantis chief found himself getting drawn in.

"Pretty soon I was thinking like him. Even named him 'Cutie' in my mind."

"So, what makes 'Cutie' different?" Mahoney wanted to know.

Cind sighed. "It boils down to his knowledge of the terrain and his target. Which means, I think Cutie had been around the palace for a while. I think he checked out every square inch of it.

"I also think he would have done his damnedest to get to know his target. Otherwise he wouldn't have been comfortable. No. Cutie would've wanted to know Sten. Real well. Have an idea about his private habits. Know which way he would duck when the attack started."

"Aye… Quite logical, lass," Alex said. " 'N maybe… Jus' mayhap…"

Mahoney smacked the table. "Of course! He would have tried to visit the embassy. Or, at least attend some official functions that Sten would have been at."

"Exactly," Cind said. "Which means either Sten, or Alex, might recognize him."

She looked up at Mahoney. "I want Sten to go to the morgue, sir," she said. "To see if he can ID the remains."

"Tell him, not me," Ian said, quite sensibly.

Cind lifted an eyebrow. "He'll think it's a waste of time, sir," she said. "Maybe if you…" She let it dangle.

"I'll drag him along by the ear," Mahoney said. "Come on Alex. Let's go chat with the ambassador."

The basement morgue was white and cold, with antiseptically filtered air that didn't cover the occasional whiff of odor that put a rusty taste on the tongue.

"Hang on a sec," the human attendant said. "I ain't finished the lunch." He waved a thick sandwich in their faces. Tomato sauce seeped through the bread.

Cind was about ready to rip his face off. Even with Mahoney and Kilgour prodding, Sten had stubbornly refused to go. He was too busy, he said. Up-to-his-ears-in-drakh busy.

Remarkably, however, she now watched him step in. Instead of barking orders, he slipped a sheaf of credits out of his pocket and waved it under the attendant's nose.

"You could always bring your lunch along," he said.

The attendant snatched the bills, motioned with the sandwich-filled hand, and trotted off. They followed.

"It's the only way to get a bureaucrat's attention," Sten muttered to her. "Yelling just makes them stubborner—and stupider."

The attendant was moving along the drawered crypts. "Let's see… Where'd I put that Jon Doe?" He aimed a remote box, pressed the button, and a corpse drawer rolled out with a crash. Cold air blasted from the crypt.

The attendant peered into the drawer. A drip of red sauce fell onto the body. He wiped it up with a thumb, then licked his thumb clean.

"Nope. Wrong guy." He jabbed the button and the drawer slammed shut. The attendant laughed. "Sorry to stiff you with the stiff."

Nobody laughed at his joke. He shrugged. "We been pretty busy since the Khaqan died," he said. "Got more clients than we got time."

He laughed again. "My wife's happier'n pig in drakh. I been on golden overtime for months. One more big shootin' match and we can go buy that retirement cottage we been dreamin' about."

"How fortunate for you," Cind said.

The attendant caught her tone. "Wasn't me that put 'em here, lady," he said. "That's your job. You frag 'em, I bag 'em. That's my motto."

He aimed the remote at another crypt and pressed the button. The drawer slid out. He peered into it. "Yep. That's the Doe you laid down your dough for. Still dead, too. Ha-ha. Belly up to the bones, boys. And see your future." He snickered at Cind. "You too, lady."

But it was Mahoney who looked first. His reaction was quick. And it was massive.

"Mother of Mercy," he intoned. "It's Venloe!"

Sten was rocked back. "It can't be." He took his own look. "Damn! It's Venloe all right."

"Thae's noo possible," Alex said as he was confirming their view. "But i' bloody is!"

Cind didn't know what they were talking about at first. Then she remembered. Venloe was the man responsible for killing the Emperor!

"I thought he was—"

"In a maximum clottin' security prison,'' Sten finished for her. "Last I heard, he was so far under the ground they had to pipe in the sunlight."

"He must have escaped," Cind said.

"Another impossibility," Sten said. He looked again. "But… there he is."

"Top part a' him, anyways," Alex said.

Mahoney frowned at the waxen features staring up at him. He remembered the day he had brought Venloe to ground. And their subsequent conversation. Venloe was a being who could squirm out of just about any situation—even the Emperor's most secure prison.

"But—what was he doing here?" Cind asked. "Who could have—"