Кристофер Банч - The Return of the Emperor

"Anyway. Professional. First I looked at the Empire. Mercury, Mantis, and ex-both. Nothing."

"Verified… or are you being sentimental and protecting the Old Boy's Network?"

"The Emperor," Mahoney said harshly, "was a friend of mine. Erase that from the recording. I didn't fudge on that one."

"Thae's many espionage pros out there hae naught't'do with th' Empire, an' ne'er hae," Kilgour said.

"Exactly. Now. Back to the MO. Little trick of the trade. You want to run a safehouse, run a drop, have a team on standby—or anything else nefarious. You don't find a warehouse in the slum, unless you're an amateur or a criminal. Find yourself a nice, rich, bohemian, if possible, neighborhood, where nobody knows or cares who's coming or going, and pride themselves on minding their own business."

"Ah. Rich man—Control—shows up in the slum. Blows in Chapelle's ear, who always thought he was meant for greatness. Disappears him—still on Prime, of course," Sten reasoned. "Control built him, taught him, armed him… in a nice, safe, rich mansion in a nice, safe, rich suburb. Prime again."

"Clot Prime," Mahoney said. "Read my lips and listen to what I just said. MO, MO, MO. We all reuse something that works. Rich… rich… rich. How many pros use that as a working tool? Can't be that many, can there?"

"It's a big clottin' universe," Sten said. "But no. We're in a little tiny subculture here."

"I already thought of some names."

"Fine. You got it, Ian. You're in motion. Question-curiosity—how will you get him to sing? If you find him?"

Mahoney sneered.

"Sorry," Sten said. "I'm telling my grandmother how to suck eggs. Shut the recorder off. Back to my line of reasoning, such as it is:

"If I were running the conspiracy, I'd want to have the fewest number of meetings possible. I've got one probably established now—the conference on Earth before Volmer was killed. Was there a second or third meeting? More? It seems to me that Sullamora would have informed everyone when he had his ducks—Chapelle, Control, possible opportunity, et cetera—in a row.

"The meeting would not be in an official place. Fear of bugs, of course. Now, I'm making a big jump. None of the privy council-types trust each other."

"Nae a jump. Thae'd be even greater clots than thae be if they did."

"So this meeting, if it occurred, might be on neutral but very clean turf. Question: Did the privy council have any meetings like that?"

"Some lad's headed twa Prime," Alex said. "Suggestion. Amateur plotters clean a'ter themselves. But ne'er think ae then puttin' in ae false trail. Meetin' ae Earth? How wae it arranged? Nae spontaneity, a' course. So Ah'll—pardon, whoe'er goes't' Prime—look for paperwork. I' there's naught, thae was a conspiracy meetin', aye?

"Same wi' any other meetin' a'fore th' Emp' gies slaughtered, pardon, sir."

"Good," Sten agreed. "That's a way in. Anyone else have any sudden flashes? We can leave the backup team in place looking for Sins After the Bang."

"Ah'll pack," Alex said, finishing his drink.

"You will," Sten agreed. "But not for Prime. I'm the one."

"Y're known an' a desir'd target, lad. Dinnae be playin' there."

"I'm not. Everything on Prime leads through Haines—or could, anyway. Who's she most likely to cooperate with?"

"Ah'll gie y' th' loan ae a mattress manual, Burns' love poems, an' a crook champagne distributor Ah know. But where am Ah headin't twa?"

"Like I said before. We're officers of the court now. But we're understaffed. I'd feel real comfortable with more. Say… ten thousand?"

Kilgour considered. "Hae much ae th' AM2 we stole kin Ah use?"

"Beyond what we had to give back to the Bhor… what we need for power here and for the Bhor cover fleets… whatever it takes. But bargain hard."

"Grannies' wi' eggs once more, lad. I'll gie Otho fr transp'rtation. Ah hae an idea where I'll look."

"Don't bother Otho. He's busy. I already lined up your ride."

"Ye're smilin' lad. Ah dinnae like thae smile."

"Trust me, Laird Kilgour. You're gonna love it."

Ships flickered into existence, so many minnows swarming to bait around the Jura System. Then, again like minnows, they formed into two fleets and went into parking orbits. Unlike minnows they were not silver, were not uniform, and mostly were not very sleek.

The first fleet landed one ship on Newton. Sten was waiting. Jon Wild, king of the smugglers—or at least their spokesman for this moment—stepped out. Again Sten marveled at his appearance. Not a pirate, not a brawler, Wild looked more like a clerklet or an archivist.

The meeting was very brief—merely a declaration of confederacy. It had taken awhile for Sten's emissary to find Wild, but only moments for the message to be conveyed and understood.

Smugglers needed four things to succeed: Trade laws, transport, cunning, and client prosperity. The privy council had destroyed one and nearly another of those preconditions. No matter how clever a smuggler is, Wild told Sten, if he can't fuel his ship he might as well stay home and farm potatoes. And what boots it if he can find fuel, but his customer has no way of paying for the smuggler's goods?

"So what can you promise me, Sten? Beyond access to the AM2 you seem to have… acquired?"

"Not the good old days. The AM2 flow stopped with the Emperor. But with the privy council condemned, they will eventually fall. I find it hard to conceive that anything short of complete chaos could be worse than what we have now."

"Smugglers, as a last resort, can live with chaos," Wild mused. " Somebody must carry the cargoes. Very well. For intelligence… scouting… transportation… troopships as a last resort… you can depend on us. For a time. Until boredom sets in, or those happy anarchists of mine decide to listen to someone else."

Sten requested Alex's presence when he boarded the "flagship" of the second fleet—revenge for Kilgour having stuck him with not only a bodyguard, but an acolyte as well.

He had hoped to surprise Alex.

It did not work very well. Kilgour looked at the projection of the motley throng their ship was closing on and called up the Jane's fiche. After glancing at a few entries, he glowered at Sten.

"Y' bastard."

Alex knew.

"Y'd stick me… y'r mate. Y'r wee lifesaver. Th' charmin' an' sophisticated lad whae taught y's all y' ken noo. Y're bent, lad. Y'r proper surname's Campbell!"

"Probably. But do you know a better pilot? Or a group of people better able to keep your potential—and I quote, officers of the court, end quote—under control?"

"M'tongue'd blacken i' Ah agreed wi' y'. An' dinnae be restatin' th' obvious when tha' wee airlock opens."

Ida was waiting for them. If anything, she had gotten even fatter. She still wore a loose, flowing Gypsy dress, probably with nothing under it, but it was a dress made of the finest fabrics. Tailored—if it was possible to tailor for a blimp. Also, her slangy language had improved—at least a little.

She whooped happily seeing her long-ago Mantis commander and started to buss Kilgour before she remembered their continuing, reason-lost, half-jesting feud. "You hadda bring him."

"He gets in trouble without a minder," Sten agreed.

"Nqo, thae't th' question ae th' hour," Alex said.

"Who's th' keeper an' who's th' bairn? I" fact, Ah mean."

Ida led them to her quarters. A bridge suite on a prehistoric ocean ship might have been more luxurious—but that was unlikely. Tapestries. Couches. Tables barely visible under a galaxy of delicacies.

"And it all clears for action in ten seconds," Ida said proudly. "Action stations, and this is a countermissile battery over there—launchers are under the floorboards right now. Over here's an emergency CIC. And the bath becomes a med clearing station.