Again the spindar dug out instruments and, attaching extensions to them, swept the ceiling area. "The man died of overeating on the third day. Odd system of justice you humans have.
"This case," the spindar continued, reseating himself, "is even stranger. You do, just as you warned me, Lieutenant, appear to have a great quantity of nothing."
For Sten, that was the first positive lead toward finding the disappeared Dr. Knox.
CHAPTER TWELVE
"And what, captain, does nothing give you?" the Eternal Emperor asked.
The Emperor might appear less angry, but Sten was determined to keep the briefing as short as possible.
As long as he stuck to business, he probably couldn't get in much trouble.
"This Knox did not want the room cleaned. My theory is that he was afraid some personal evidence might still be in the room's automatic cleaning filters.
"We found no fingerprints. No traces of dead skin, no urine traces in the bed, no sweat or oil stains in the pillow. Also, there was no IR residue in the bed coverings."
"Thank you, Captain. I will now assume you and the techs produced every sort of zero-trace science can look for. Explain."
Sten did. Knox not only cleaned the room minutely, but also used sophisticated electronics to remove
all
traces of his occupancy.
"So. Your, uh, Knox character's more than just a professional doctor."
"That's the assumption," Sten said carefully. "Haines—she's the police OIC on the case—is tracing doctors who might have learned another set of skills."
"If your Knox is as good as you say, Captain, I'd assume he was an offworlder."
"Haines is checking all Prime World arrivals within the last E-year, sir."
"Good luck. Prediction, Captain: You're going to draw a big fat blank."
"Probably. Which is why we're working angle B—the bomber."
The Emperor shrugged. "If you've got one pro, why couldn't the bomber be just as faceless?"
"Because the bomber—" Sten caught himself before he could say "blew it."—"made a mistake."
The Emperor considered. "All right. Work that angle. Is there anything else?"
Sten shook his head—there was no point in mentioning the tacsquad's mysterious presence until Haines had more information.
"One more thing, Captain. For your information only. The Tahn Embassy's Principal Secretary has requested an interview with me. I think we may both assume what it will be regarding.
"And I really would like to be able to tell him more than 'I got plenty of nothing.'
"That's all, Captain. You may go."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sten fingered the pore-pattern key on his mailbox and absentmindedly fished out its contents. It was the usual junk—
The Imperial Guard Times, Forces Journal
, the palace's daily house organ, the latest promotion list, an ad from a military jeweler—all of which went into the disposal. Sten tucked one fiche—reminder of his somewhat past-due bill from a uniform tailor—into his belt pouch and started to close the little door. Then he saw something else and fished it out curiously.
It was a real paper envelope, addressed by hand to "Captain Sten, Imperial Household." Sten fumbled the envelope open. Three other pieces of paper dropped into his hand. The first was a blank envelope.
The second was a thick engraved paper card:
MARR & SENN Request the Honor of
Your Attendance At a Dinner Reception for
KAI HAKONE RSVP Guest
Perplexed, Sten stared at the invitation. Of course he knew Marr and Senn as the Imperial caterers and unofficial social arbiters at Court. The brief meetings he'd had with them had been purely official, even though he was personally intrigued by their bitchy humor and warmth. He wondered why they'd invite a lowly captain, regardless of position, to what must be a Major Social Event.
The third piece of paper, also hand-written, explained it. The card said simply, "It's time for old friends to meet again," and was signed Sofia.
Umm. Sten knew that the woman he'd had a brief but very passionate affair with during a previous assignment was on Prime World—he'd been responsible for getting Sofia off Nebta before the shooting started—but had semideliberately not looked her up, having no idea any longer what he felt toward her.
Sten decided he needed some advice. In the Imperial Household, unofficial advice for officers was the province of the Grand Chamberlain. His offices were only a few hundred meters from the Emperor's own business suite.
The Grand Chamberlain, Fleet Admiral Mik Ledoh (Ret.), looked like everyone's favorite grandsire.
Sten, however, had looked up the admiral's record as part of his routine security check while settling into the job.
A hundred years before, Ledoh had been a fireball. Literally. During the Palafox rising, his tacship flight was ordered to provide cover for a small planetary landing. Unfortunately, intelligence had erred, and the planet was strongly defended by hardened orbital satellites.
Ledoh had supervised the conversion of the tacships into pilot-aimed nuclear missiles, and then led the strike himself. He and three other pilots managed to jettison their capsules successfully.
Then, over the next decades, he'd become the Imperial fleet's prime specialist in planetary assaults.
Promotion came rapidly for a man who, basically, specialized in logistics. By the time of the Mueller Wars, Ledoh was a fleet admiral.
The Mueller Wars were one of the more confusing conflicts of the Empire, since the battles were fought near-simultaneously on dozens of different worlds. During the wars, Ledoh commanded the landings in the Crais System, and in a war noted for its bloodiness and ineptness, took the system with minimal losses—minimal, at least, compared to the fifty to seventy percent casualties the war's other battles produced.
After peace was signed, Ledoh retired for some years, then emigrated to Prime World. When the previous Grand Chamberlain died in office following an unfortunate surfeit of smoked eels, Ledoh, with his combat record and, more important, logistical ability, was a natural for the job.
Sten could never figure out how Ledoh managed to juggle the various official and unofficial requirements of a household the size of a medium city and still maintain benevolence. Sten was very grateful that he had nothing more to worry about than keeping the Emperor alive, and the welfare of 150 Gurkhas.
Sten stepped inside Ledoh's office and paused.
Ledoh, Colonel Fohlee, CO of the Praetorians, and Arbogast, the Imperial Household's paymaster, were staring at a wallscreen readout.
"Colonel," Arbogast said, "I am not attempting to involve myself in militaria. All I am doing is trying to clear this inquiry from Himself regarding the, and I quote, inordinately high desertion rate in your unit."
"What does the Emperor expect to happen when you dump a lot of young soldiers into the middle of Prime? Any virgin can be seduced."
"Another area which isn't my expertise," Arbogast said. He and Fohlee quite clearly hated each other.
Ledoh attempted mediation.
"There were four desertions this month alone, Colonel. Perhaps you should examine the selection method for your Praetorians."
Fohlee turned on Ledoh. "Does not compute, Admiral. Candidates for the Praetorians are personally vetted by myself or my adjutant."
Arbogast came in before Ledoh could respond. "No one is trying to assign blame, Colonel. But your records indicate that almost forty men from your unit have disappeared in the last E-year alone. And none of these deserters has turned himself in or been arrested. The Emperor feels that something is wrong."
"I'm aware of that," Fohlee said. "My staff is devoting full attention to the problem."
"Perhaps," Ledoh said, "we're putting too much demand on the young soldiers."
"Perhaps," Fohlee said reluctantly. "I'll look into it myself."
"Thank you, Colonel. I'll report to the emperor that you have taken over full personal responsibility."
Arbogast gathered his file, nodded to Ledoh and Sten, and disappeared back toward the rabbit-warren filing system.
"Clotting clerks," Fohlee snarled, then turned and saw Sten. "Captain."
"Colonel Fohlee."
"I've been trying to contact you for most of today."
"Sorry, Colonel," Sten said. "I was under special orders."
Fohlee snorted. "No doubt. I've been observing your troops, Captain. And, while I never believe in telling another commander his business, it appears to me that some of your soldiers are less than adequately concerned about their appearance."
"Gurkhas are pretty lousy at spit and polish," Sten agreed.
"It's been my experience, having commanded soldiers from every race, that none of them cannot be taught proper military appearance."
Even though Fohlee was nowhere near Sten's chain of command, there was little benefit in getting into a slanging match with a superior officer.
"Thank you for bringing the matter to my attention," Sten said formally. "I'll check into it."
Fohlee nodded a very military nod. Once up, once down. He collected his file, came to attention, saluted Ledoh, and brushed past Sten.
Ledoh waited until the colonel's metal-tapped boot-heels resounded down the corridor, then smiled.
"Offload, young Sten. What's the prog?"
Sten was still staring out the door.
"Don't fret the colonel, boy. He's just grinding his molars."
"I see. But what the hell do I have to do with why his toy soldiers are disappearing?"
"Jealousy."
"Huh?"
"Colonel Fohlee is deeply disturbed that—by Fohlee's thinking at least—the Eternal Emperor puts so little faith in his Praetorians, and chooses the Gurkhas for immediate security."
Sten blinked. "That—no offense, sir—is damned silly."
"The smallness of the military mind in peacetime, young Sten, should never be overrated. At any rate.
Your problem, now."
"It's, well, unofficial. And personal."
"Oh-hoh." Ledoh touched a key on his desk and the door behind Sten slid shut and the conference light on the exterior went on. "Timecheck?"
Sten looked at his watch finger. "Seventeen forty-five."
Ledoh sighed contentedly and fished a flask out of his desk. Two pewter cups went beside it, and Ledoh gestured with the bottle. "Join me in a libation of this substance our Eternal Distiller refers to as Scotch."
"Uh, I'm not sure if I'm off duty."
"As my prerogative as Household Chamberlain, you are officially off duty."
Sten grinned as Ledoh filled the cups.
"I have no idea," Ledoh said plaintively, "why His Highness insists on gifting me with this vile swill."
The two men drank.
"GA, young man."
Sten passed Ledoh the invitation.
Ledoh's eyebrows slithered slightly in amazement. "Great Empire, but you rate, young man.
I
wasn't invited to this bash."
Sten handed the personal note across.
"Ah. Now I see. Who is this Sofia?"
"A, uh, young woman I am—was—friendly with."
"Suddenly it all becomes very clear. Pour yourself another, son."
Sten followed orders.
"Firstly, this event is, as the vid-chatter says, the primo social event of the season."
Sten didn't want to seem ignorant, but—"Who is this Hakone?"
"Tsk. Young officers should read more. He is an author. Very controversial and all that. Writes about, generally, the military, from, shall we say, a somewhat unique point of view.
"Were the Eternal Emperor not who he is, in fact, Hakone's writing might be termed borderline treason."
"That settles that, then."
"Negative, young man. The Emperor encourages dissent—short of anyone's actually putting it into practice. And as you may have discovered after Empire Day, he likes his officers to think freely."
"So I should go?"
"You should go. Excellent visibility for career and all that. However, there remains one problem. This young lady… Sofia."
"Yeah," Sten agreed.
"Without prying, young Sten, what are your current feelings toward the lady?"
"I'm not sure."
"Then there
is
a problem—besides the fact that both our glasses are empty. Thank you.
"Marr and Senn believe in keeping, shall we say, a lively household. By this I mean that they have in residence some of the most marriageable beings in the Empire."
"Oops," Sten said, almost spilling his Scotch.
"Exactly. If this Sofia is able to invite you to the feté, she must be one of Marr and Senn's Eligibles."
Sten couldn't believe it. "Me?"
"Of course, Captain. You could be considered very desirable. I assume this Sofia comes from some off-planet nobility or other, and probably has wealth. For her, marrying someone who has the appropriate hero awards, someone who is part of the Imperial Household, and, most important, someone who has been selected at a very young age for a fairly important command, might, shall we say, signify?"
"I'm not going!"
"Do not be so absolutist, Sten. Consider the invitation. It says 'Guest,' does it not? The answer to your problem is simple. Contact an incredibly lovely young lady of your acquaintance and take her. That should defuse the Sofia situation handily."
Sten poured his drink down and shook his head sadly.
"Admiral, all I've done since I've been on Prime is my job. I don't know any young ladies—let alone any incredibly lovely ones."
"Ah well. Perhaps the Emperor will be willing to give the bride away, then."
Sten blanched.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The tower was a shudder of light at the end of a long, narrow valley. A gravcar flared over the mountains, spearing the valley with its landing lights—hesitating as the autopilot oriented itself, and then
whooshed
toward the tower along the broad avenue that was the valley. Moments later, other gravcars followed its route, hovering momentarily then bursting for the tower in a rush.
Marr and Senn had invested half their credits and most of their ultraartistic souls in the tower. It needled up from a broad base to a slender penthouse perch. The tower was constructed of every imaginable mineral, metal, or crystal that responded pleasingly to light. For
their
living quarters, Senn and Marr had had no interest in conventional building materials. Nor were the materials uniform in shape or size—a vaguely oval lump might be placed next to a perfect square. Light in all its forms was all that counted.