Throne of Stars (68 page)

“You always have grounded me,” Roger said, patting her hand. “We’ll discuss it.”

“We already have,” Despreaux said, taking the patting hand and putting it in her lap. “Any
further
discussion will take place in bed. Say ‘Yes, Dear.’”

“Yes, Dear.”

“And these tits are new, so they’re still a bit sore. Be careful with them.”

“Yes, Dear,” Roger said with a grin.

“My, Your Highness,” Julian said, looking up as a whistling Roger walked into the office he’d set up. “You’re looking chipper today.”

“Oh, shut up, Julian,” Roger said, trying unsuccessfully not to grin.

“Is that a hickey I see on your neck?”

“Probably. And that’s all we’re going to discuss about the evening’s events, Sergeant. Now, what did you want to tell me?”

“I’ve been looking into the information the Alphanes provided on our Navy dispositions.” Julian was still grinning, but he spoke in his getting-down-to-business voice.

“And?” Roger prompted.

“Fleets can’t survive indefinitely without supplies,” Julian said. “Normally, they get resupplied by Navy colliers and general supply ships sent out from Navy bases. But Sixth Fleet is right on the edge of being defined as operating in a state of mutiny, with everything that’s going on. So Navy bases have been ordered
not
to resupply its units.”

“So where are they getting their supplies?” Roger asked, eyes narrowing in interest as he leaned his shoulders against the office wall and folded his arms.

“At the moment, from three planets and a station in the Halliwell Cluster.”

“Food and fuel, you mean?” Roger asked. “I don’t see them getting resupply on missiles. And what are they doing for spares?”

“Fuel isn’t really that big a problem . . . yet,” Julian replied. “Each numbered fleet has its own assigned fleet train service squadron, including tankers, and Sixth Fleet hasn’t been pulling a lot of training maneuvers since the balloon went up. They haven’t been burning a lot of reactor mass, and even if they had been, feeding a fusion plant’s pretty much dirt cheap. I don’t think Helmut would hesitate for a minute when it came to ‘requisitioning’ reactor mass from civilian sources, for that matter.

“Food, on the other hand, probably is a problem, or becoming one. Missile resupply, no sweat, so far—they haven’t expended any of their precoup allotment. But spare parts, now.
Those
are definitely going to be something he’s worrying about. On the other hand, you and I both know how inventive you can get when you’re desperate.”

“‘Inventive’ doesn’t help if a capacitor goes out,” Roger pointed out. “Okay, so they’re getting resupplied by friendly local planets. What’s that do for us?”

“According to the Alphanes, Helmut’s supplies are being picked up by three of his service squadron’s colliers:
Capodista, Ozaki
, and
Adebayo
. I was looking at the intel they have on Sixth Fleet’s officers—”

“Got to love their intel on us,” Roger said dryly.

“No shit. I think they know more about our fleets than the Navy does,” Julian agreed. “But the point is, the captain of the
Capodista
is one Marciel Poertena.”

“Any relation to . . . ?”

“Second cousin. Or once removed, or something. His dad’s cousin. The point is, they know each other; I checked.”

“And
you
know Helmut.”

“Not . . . exactly. I was one of the Marines on his ship, once upon a time, but there were fifty of us. We met. He might remember me. Then again, given that the one time we really
met
met it was for disciplinary action . . .”

“Great,” Roger said.

“Who the messenger is isn’t really that important,” Julian pointed out. “We just need to get him the message—that the Empress is in trouble, that the source of the trouble is provably not you, and that you’re going to fix it.”

“And that if we
can’t
fix it, he has to disappear,” Roger said. “That we’re not going to crack the Empire over this. Anything is better than that, and I don’t want him coming in after the fact, all guns blazing, if we screw the pooch.”

“We’re going to have a civil war whatever happens,” Julian countered.

“But we’re not going to Balkanize the Empire,” Roger said sternly. “He has to understand that and
agree
. Otherwise, no deal. On the other hand, if he supports us, and if we win, he has his choice: continue in Sixth Fleet until he’s senile, or Home Fleet, or Chief of Naval Operations. His call.”

“Jesus, Roger! There’s a reason those are all two-year appointments!”

“I know, and I don’t really care. He’s loyal to the Empire first—
that
I care about. Tell him I’d
prefer
CNO or Home Fleet.”

“I tell him?”

“You. Turn over your intel-gathering to Nimashet and Eleanora. Then get Poertena. You’re on the next ship headed towards the Halliwell System.” Roger stuck out his hand. “Make a really
good
presentation, Julian.”

“I will,” the sergeant said, standing up. “I will.”

“Good luck, Captain,” Roger added.

“Captain?”

“It’s not official till its official. But from now on, that’s what you are from my point of view. There are going to be quite a few promotions going on.”

“I don’t want to be a colonel.”

“And Nimashet doesn’t want to be Empress,” Roger replied. “Face facts, Eva. I’m going to need people I can trust, and they’re going to have to have the rank to go with the trust. For that matter, you’re going to be a general pretty damned quick. I know you think about the Empire first.”

“That’s . . . not precisely true,” the Armaghan said. “Or, not the way it used to be.” She looked him straight in the eye. “I’m one of
your
people now, Roger. I agree with your reasoning about the Empire, but the fact that I agree with it is less important than the fact that it’s
your
reasoning. You need to be clear on that distinction. Call me a fellow traveler, in that regard.”

“Noted,” Roger said. “But in either case, you know what I’m trying to do. So if you think I’m doing something harmful to the
Empire, for whatever reason, you tell me.”

“Well, all right,” she said, then chuckled. “But if that’s what you really want me to do, maybe I should start now.”

“Now?”

“Yeah. I’m just wondering, have you really
thought
about the consequences of making Poertena a lieutenant?”

“Pocking nuts, t’at’s what t’ey are,” Poertena muttered, looking at the rank tabs sitting on the bed. “Modderpocking nuts.”

Poertena had spent most of his life as a short, swarthy, broad individual with lanky black hair. Now he was a short, broad, fair-skinned individual, with a shock of curly
red
hair. If anything, the new look fitted his personality better. If not his accent.

“How bad can it be?” Denat asked.

The Mardukan was D’Nal Cord’s nephew. Unlike his uncle, he was under no honor obligation to wander along with the humans, but he did suffer from a severe case of horizon fever. He’d accompanied them to the first city—what he’d considered a city at the time—Q’Nkok, to help his uncle in negotiations with the local rulers. But when Cord followed Roger and his band off into the Kranolta-haunted wilderness, Denat (for reasons he couldn’t even define at the time) had followed along, despite the fact that everyone
knew
it was suicide.

In the ensuing third of a Mardukan year, he’d been enthralled, horrified, and terrified by turns, each beyond belief. He’d very rarely been bored, however. He’d also discovered a hidden gift for languages and an ability to “blend in” with a local population—both of which abilities had been pretty well hidden among a tribe of bone-grinding savages—which had proved highly useful to the humans.

And in Marshad, he had acquired a wife as remarkable, in her own way, as Pedi Karuse. T’Leen Sena was as brilliant a covert operator as any race had ever produced, and although she was small—petite, actually—for a Mardukan, and a “sheltered city girl,” to boot, she was also a very, very dangerous person. The fact that she’d seen fit to marry a wandering warrior from a tribe of stone-using barbarians might have shocked her family and friends; it did not shock anyone who knew Denat.

In addition to gaining adventure, wealth, fame, and a wife he doted upon, he and Poertena had become friends. Representatives of two dissimilar species, from wildly divergent backgrounds, somehow they clicked. Part of that was a shared love of gambling, at least if the stakes were right. The two of them had introduced various card games to unsuspecting Mardukans across half a planet, and done rather well financially in the process. To a Mardukan, cheating was just part of the game.

“Ask me if I trus’ him,” Poertena griped as he packed his valise. “He’s a
Poertena
! I gotta say yes, but t’ey got no
idea
what an insult t’at would be.
Of course
you can’ trus’ him.”

“I trust
you
,” Denat said. “I mean, not with cards or anything, but I’d take you at my back. I’d trust you with my knife.”

“Well, sure,” Poertena said. “But . . . damn, you don’ have to make a big t’ing about it. An’ it ain’t t’e same t’ing, anways. If Julian goes in all ‘good of t’e Empire,’ Marciel’s gonna
preak
.”

“Well, at least you’re getting off this damned planet,” Denat grumped. “It’s a pocking ice ball, playing cards with these damned bears is
boring
, and the sky is overhead
all the time.
Doesn’t it ever
rain
?”

Rain and overcast skies were constant companions on Marduk, one of the reasons the locals had evolved with slime-covered skin.

“You wanna come along, come along,” Poertena said, looking up from his packing.

“Don’t tempt me,” Denat said wistfully. “Sena would kill me if I ran off without her.”

“So?” Poertena snorted. “She also one of t’e bes’ pockin’ ‘spooks’ I know. Might be she come in handy in somet’ing like t’is.”

“You really think Roger would agree to let both of us come?” Denat perked up noticeably, and Poertena chuckled.

“Hey, got’s to prove somehow where t’e pock we been for t’e las’ year, don’ we? I t’ink a pair of Mardukans migh’ be abou’ t’e bes’ pockin’ proof we gonna find.” He shrugged. “We can get more tickets. I don’ know wha’ we do por t’e passports, but we pigure out somet’ing. Ones we got are pretty good por complete pakes.”

“Ask, please,” Denat said. “I’m going crazy here.”

“Well, we’re moving.” Roger pulled out a strand of hair, then tucked it behind his ear. “We can get an abort message to Julian, if it reaches him in time. But for all practical purposes, the die is cast.”

“Second thoughts?” Despreaux asked. They were in Roger’s quarters eating a quiet meal, just the two of them.

“Some,” he admitted. “You don’t know how good the ‘government-in-exile’ plan’s looked to me from time to time.”

“Oh, I think I do. But it was never really an option, was it?”

“No, not really.” Roger sighed. “I just hate putting everyone in harm’s way, again. When does it end?”

“I don’t know.” Despreaux shrugged. “When we win?”

“If we capture Mother, and New Madrid,” he never called New Madrid “father,” “and Adoula. Maybe everything will hold together. Oh, and capture the replicator, too. And if Helmut can checkmate Home Fleet. And if none of Adoula’s cabal grabs a portion of the Navy and flees back to the Sagittarius Sector. If, if, if.”

“You need to stop fretting about it,” Despreaux said, and then smiled crookedly at the look he gave her. “I know—I know! Easier to say than to do. That doesn’t keep it from being good advice.”

“Probably not,” he agreed. “But there’s not much point giving someone advice you
know
he can’t follow.”

“True. So let’s at least worry about something we might be able to do something about. Any news on the freighter?”

“Sreeetoth said maybe two more days,” Roger replied with a shrug of his own. “They didn’t have one that was quite right in-system. It’s coming from Seranos. Everything else is ready to go, so all we can do is wait.”

“Whatever will we do with the time?” Despreaux smiled again, not at all crookedly.

None of the crew recruited for the freighter were aware of the true identities of their passengers. They’d been recruited in spaceport bars around the Seranos System, one of the fringe systems of the Alphane Alliance which bordered on Raiden-Winterhowe, and they knew
something
was fishy. Nobody, no matter how rich and eccentric, charters a freighter, picks up a crew, and loads the freighter with barbarians, live animals of particularly nasty dispositions, and food that can’t possibly recoup the cost of the voyage for reasons that weren’t “fishy.” But the crew, most of whom had some questionable moments tucked away in their own backgrounds, assumed it was a standard illegal venture. Smuggling, probably, although smuggling
what
was a question. But they knew they were getting paid smuggler’s wages, and that was good enough for them.

It was twelve days to the edge of Imperial space, and their first stop was Customs in the Carsta System, Baron Sandhurt’s region.

They intended to stop only long enough to clear customs, but it was a nerve-wracking time. This was “insertion,” the most dangerous moment of any covert operation. Anything could go wrong. The Mardukans were all briefed with their cover stories. The Earther had hired them to go to Old Earth to work in restaurants. Some of them were soldiers from their home world, yes; but wars were getting short, which was leaving them unemployed, and unemployable. Some of them were cooks, yes. Would you like to try some roast
atul
?

Roger waited at the docking port as the shuttle came alongside, standing with his hands folded behind him and his feet shoulder width apart. Not entirely calm; total calm would have been a dead giveaway. Everyone was always uncomfortable at customs. You never knew when something could go wrong—some crewman with contraband, a change in some obscure regulation that meant a portion of your cargo impounded.

Beach appeared much calmer, as befitted her role. She was only a hired hand, right? Of course she was, and she’d been through customs repeatedly. And if anything was amiss, well, it wasn’t her money, was it? The worst that could happen was a black mark against her and, well, that had happened before, hadn’t it? She’d still be a captain on some vessel or another. It was just customs.