Throne of Stars (72 page)

“Just before the wheels came off for the Krath, they made contact with these people from the other side of the local ocean—from a place called K’Vaern’s Cove, sort of a local maritime trading empire—and I got some good footage on
them
, too. And the
food
those people turned out!”

He shook his head, and Thorwell chuckled again.

“Food, Harvard? That was never your big thing before.”

“Well, yeah,” Mansul agreed with a smile, “but that was when
I
wasn’t likely to be winding up on anyone’s menu. What I was thinking was, we play off the cuisine of the noncannibals when we start reporting on the Krath. Use it as a contrast and compare sort of thing.”

“Um.” Thorwell frowned thoughtfully, scratching his chin, then nodded. Slowly, at first, and then more enthusiastically. “I like it!” he agreed.

“I thought you might,” Mansul said. Indeed, he’d counted on it. And it fitted in with the traditional
IAS
position—a way to use the shuddery-shivery concept of cannibalism by simply mentioning it in the midst of a scholarly analysis and comparison of the rest of the planet’s cooking.

“All right,” he said, leaning forward and setting his small, portable holo player on Thorwell’s coffee table, “I thought we might start with this bit. . . .”

“Helmut’s moving,” General Gianetto said as Prince Jackson’s secretary closed the prince’s office door behind him.

The office was on the top occupied level of the Imperial Tower, a megascraper that rose almost a kilometer into the air to the west of Imperial city. Adoula’s view was to the east, moreover, where he could keep an eye on what he was more and more coming to consider his personal fiefdom.

Jackson Adoula was man in late middle age, just passing his hundred and twelfth birthday, with black hair that was graying at the temples. He had a lean, ascetic face and was dressed in the height of current Court fashion. His brocade-fronted tunic was of pearl-gray natural silk, a tastefully neutral background for the deep, jewel-toned purples, greens, and crimson of the embroidery. His round, stand-up collar was, perhaps, just a tiny bit lower-cut than a true fashion stickler might have demanded, but that was his sole concession to comfort. The jeweled pins of several orders of nobility gleamed on his left breast, and his natural-leather boots glistened like shiny black mirrors below his fashionably baggy dark-blue trousers.

Now he looked up at his fellow conspirator and raised one aristocratic eyebrow.

“Moving where?” he asked.

“No idea,” Gianetto said, taking a chair. The general was taller than the prince, fit and trim-looking with a shock of gray hair cut short enough to show his scalp. He was also the first Chief of Naval Operations—effectively, the Empire’s uniformed commander in chief—who was a general and not an admiral. “The carrier I had watching him said Sixth Fleet just tunneled out, all at once. I’ve pushed out sensor ships. If they come back in anywhere within four light-days of Sol, we’ll know about it.”

“They can sit out
eighteen light-
years
and tunnel in in six hours,” Adoula said.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Gianetto replied.

“All right,” Adoula said, “I will. One of Helmut’s shuttles picked up four people from Halliwell Two before he departed. Two humans and a pair of Mardukans.”

“Mardukans?” The general frowned. “You don’t see many of those around.”

“The word from our informants is that they were heavies for an underworld organization. One of the humans had a UOW passport; the other one an Imperial. They’re both fakes, obviously, but the Imperial one is in the database. He’s supposedly from Armagh, but his accent was Pinopan.”

“Criminals?” Gianetto rubbed his right index and thumb together while he considered that. “That makes a certain amount of sense. Helmut has got to be hurting for spares; they’re trying to get their ships refurbed off the black market.”

“Possibly. But we don’t want to assume that.”

“No,” the general agreed, but he was clearly already thinking about something else. “What about this bill to force an independent evaluation of the Empress?” he asked.

“Oh, I’m supporting it,” Adoula replied. “Of course.”

“Are you
nuts
?” Gianetto snarled. “If a doctor gets one look at her—”

“It won’t come to that,” Adoula assured him. “
I’m
supporting it, but every vote I can beg, bribe, cajole, or blackmail is against it. It won’t even get out of committee.”

“Let’s hope,” Gianetto said, and frowned. “I’m less than enthused by the . . . methods you’re using.” His frown turned into a grimace of distaste. “Bad enough to keep the Empress on a string, but . . .”

“The defenses built into the Empress are extraordinary,” Adoula said sternly. “Since she proved unwilling to be reasonable, extraordinary measures were necessary. All we have to do is sit tight for five more months. Let me handle that end. You just keep your eye on the Navy.”

“That’s under control,” Gianetto assured him. “With the exception of that bastard, Helmut. And as long as we don’t get any ‘independent evaluation’ of Her Majesty. If what you’re doing to the Empress gets out, they won’t just kill us; they’ll cut us into pieces and feed us to dogs.”

“Now I’m a real estate agent,” Dobrescu grumped.

“Broker,” Macek said. “Facilitator. Lessor’s representative. Something.”

The neighborhood was a light industrial park on the slope of what had once been called the “Blue Ridge.” On a clear day, you could see just about to the Palace. Or you would have been able to, if it weren’t for all the skyscrapers and megascrapers in the way.

It had once been a rather nice industrial park, but time and shifting trade had left it behind. Its structures would long ago have been demolished to clear space for larger, more useful buildings, but for various entailments that prevented change. Most of the buildings were vacant, a result of the boom and bust cycle in commercial real estate. Fortunately, the one they were looking for was one such. They were supposed to be meeting the owner’s representative, but she was late.

And, inevitably, it was a miserable day. The weather generators
had
to let an occasional cold front through, and this was the day that had been scheduled for it. So they sat in the aircar, watching the rain sheet off the windscreen, and watched the empty building with a big “For Lease” sign on the front.

Finally, a nine-passenger utility aircar sat down, and a rather attractive blonde in her thirties got out, set up a rain shield, and then hurried over to the building’s covered portico.

Dobrescu and Macek got out, ignoring the rain and cold, and walked over to join her.

“Mr. Ritchie?” The woman held out her hand. “Angie Beringer. Pleased to meet you. Sorry I’m late.”

“Not a problem,” Dobrescu said, shaking the offered hand.

“Let me get this unlocked,” she said, and set her pad against the door.

The personnel door led into a small reception area. More locked doors led into the warehouse itself.

“Just over three thousand square meters,” the real estate lady said. “The last company that had it was a printing outfit.” She pointed to the rear of the big warehouse and a line of heavy plasteel doors. “Those are secure rooms for ink, from what I was told. Apparently it’s pretty hazardous stuff. The building has a clear bill of environmental health, though.”

“Figures,” Macek said, picking up a dust-covered flyer from a box—one of many—against one of the walls. “Escort advertisements. Hey, this one looks just like Shara!”

“Can it,” Dobrescu said, and looked at Beringer. “It looks good. It’ll do anyway.”

“First and last month’s deposit, minimum lease of two years,” the woman said diffidently. “Mr. Chung’s credit checked out just fine, but the owners insist.”

“That’s fine. How do we do the paperwork?”

“Thumb print here,” the real estate agent said, holding out her pad. “And send us a transfer.”

“Can I get the keys now?” Dobrescu asked as he pressed the pad to give his wholly false thumb print.

“Yes,” Beringer said. “But if we don’t get the transfer, the locks will be changed, and you’ll be billed for it.”

“You’ll get the money,” Dobrescu promised, holding his pad up to hers. He checked to make sure the key codes had transferred and made a mental note to change them. “We’re going to take a look around,” he said then.

“Go ahead,” she replied. “If you don’t need me?”

“Thanks for meeting us in this mess,” Macek replied.

“What are you going to use it for, again?” she asked curiously.

“My boss wants to start a chain of restaurants,” Dobrescu answered. “Authentic off-planet food. We need some place to store it, other than the ship it’s coming in on.”

“Well, maybe I’ll get a chance to try it out,” Beringer said.

“I’ll make sure you get an invite.”

Once the woman was gone, they went back out to the aircar and got the power pack, some tools, and a grav-belt.

“I hope like hell the modifications haven’t covered it up,” Macek said.

“Yeah,” Dobrescu agreed. He took out a laser measuring device, checked the readout, and pointed to the center plasteel door. “There.”

The room beyond was dimly lit, but what were clearly power lines stuck out of one wall near the ceiling.

“Nobody ever wondered about those?”

“Buildings like this go through so many changes and owners,” Dobrescu said, putting on the belt, “that stuff gets rewired all the time. As long as it’s not currently hot, nobody cares what it used to power.”

He touched a stud on the belt and lifted up to the wiring, where he cautiously applied a heavy-gauge voltage meter. There were smaller wires for controls beside the power cables, and he hooked a box to them and took a reading.

“Yeah, there’s something back there,” he said. “Toss me the power line.”

He caught the coil of heavy-duty cable on the second toss, and wired it into the power leads. Then he hooked up the control wires and lowered himself back down to the ground.

“Now to see if we’re on a fool’s errand,” he muttered, and keyed a sequence into the control box.

There was a heavy grinding noise. The walls of the warehouse were set into the side of the hill and made of large, precast slabs of plascrete, with thin lines separating them for expansion and contraction. Now the center slab began to move backward, apparently into the solid hill. It cleared the slabs on either side, then began to slide sideways, revealing a tunnel into the hill. It moved surprisingly smoothly . . . until it abruptly stopped part way with a metallic twang.

“We need a lamp,” Dobrescu said.

Macek went back out to the aircar for a hand light, and, with its aid, they found the chunk of fallen plascrete that blocked the door’s track, levered it out of the way, and got the door fully open and operating. The air in the tunnel had the musty smell of long disuse, and they both put on air masks before they followed it into the hill.

The walls were concrete—real, old-fashioned concrete—dripping with water and cracked and pitted with extreme age. The door that sealed the far end of the tunnel was made of heavy steel, with a locking bar. Both had been covered in protective sealant, and when they got the sealant off, the portal opened at a touch.

The room beyond was large, and, unlike the approach tunnel, its air was bone-dry. More corridors stretched into the distance, and there was a small fusion generator on the floor of the main room. It was a very old model, also sealed against the elements. Dobrescu and Macek cut the sealant away and, after studying the instructions, got it into operation.

Lights came on in the room. Fans began to move. In the distance, a gurgling of pumps started up.

“Looks like we’re in business,” Dobrescu said.

“What’s the name of this place?”

“It used to be called Greenbrier.”

“This one’s not nearly as pretty as the last one,” Macek said.

“Get what you’re given,” Dobrescu replied as they climbed out of the aircar. He’d been keeping a careful eye on a group of young men lounging on the corner. When the real estate agent landed and got out, they straightened up and one of them whistled.

The young woman—this one a short woman in her twenties, with faintly African features—ignored the whistle and strode over to the two waiting “businessmen.”

“Mr. Ritchie?” she asked, looking at both of them.

“Me,” Dobrescu said.

“Pleased to meet you,” she said, shaking his hand, then gestured at the building. “There it is.”

This area had once been a small town, before it was absorbed by the burgeoning Imperial City megalopolis. The town, for historical reasons, had managed to maintain its “traditional” buildings, however. This specific building had predated even the ancient United States . . . which had predated the Empire by over a thousand years. The home of an early politician of the unified states, it had a pleasant view of the small river that ran through the town. It had been maintained, literally, for millennia.

Yet shifting trade, again, had finally ruined it. The plaster walls were cracked and peeling, the roof sunken in. Windows had been broken out. The massive oaks which had once shaded the beautiful house of an early president were long gone, victims of the narrow band of sunlight available in a town surrounded by skyscrapers. The small town was now a drug and crime haven.

There were, however, signs of improvement. The pressure of real estate values this near the center of Imperial City had sent the outriders of a “gentrification” wave washing gently through it. Many of the ancient buildings were cloaked in scaffolding, and there were coffee shops and small grocers scattered along the narrow streets. The quaint old houses of what had once been Fredericksburg, Virginia, had become a haven for the Bohemians who survived in the urban jungle.

And they were about to get a new restaurant.

Dobrescu poked through the building, avoiding holes in the wood floors and shaking his head at the plaster fallen from the ceiling.

“This is going to take one helluva lot of renovation,” he said, again shaking his head.

“I have some other buildings I can show you,” the real estate agent offered.