Throne of Stars (89 page)

“I didn’t say it was going to be easy,” Kjerulf said.

“How’s he going to tell the sheep from the goats?” Ferenc asked. “Helmut, that is. Even if he’s fast, we’re going to be pretty mixed up at that point.”

“Simple,” Kjerulf said, grinning ferally. “We’ll just reset our transponders to identify ourselves as the Fatted Calf Squadron.”

Nimashet Despreaux was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a clotheshorse. Certainly not in comparison to her fiancé. She’d grown up on a small farm on one of the border worlds, where hand-me-downs had been the order of the day. A new dress at Yule had been considered a blessing during her childhood, and she’d never really felt any pressure, even after she joined the Marines and had a bit more spending money, to dress up. Uniform took care of any business-related sartorial requirements, and slacks and a ratty sweater were always in style off-duty, in her opinion.

Still, certain appearances had to be maintained under the present circumstances. She had only three “dressy” outfits to wear at the restaurant, and some of the regulars had to have noticed by now that she was cycling through them. So whatever her personal wishes, it was time to get a few more.

She stepped out of the airtaxi on a fifth-story landing stage and paused, frowning, as she considered the mall. She could probably get everything she needed in Sadik’s. She hoped so, anyway. She’d never been one of those odd people who actively enjoyed the task of shopping, and she wanted to get this chore done and out of the way as quickly as possible. Thirty-seven seconds would have been her own preference, but this was the real world, so she’d settle for finishing within no more than an hour.

As she started for the mall, an alarm bell rang suddenly in her head. She was a highly trained bodyguard, and something about the too-casual demeanor of two rather hefty males headed in her general direction was causing a bit of adrenaline to leach into her system.

She glanced behind her as an airvan landed on the stage, and then whipped back around as the heavies she’d already spotted abruptly stopped being “casual.” They moved towards her with sudden purposefulness, as if the airvan’s arrival had been a signal—which it almost certainly
had
been. But they weren’t quite as perfectly coordinated as they obviously fondly believed they were, and Despreaux flicked out a foot and buried the sole of her sensible, sturdy shoe in the belly of the one on her left. It was a hard enough snap-kick, augmented by both training and Marine muscle-enhancing nanites, that he was probably going to have serious internal injuries. She spun in place and slammed one elbow towards the attacker on the right. Blocked, she stamped down and crushed his instep, then brought her other elbow up, catching his descending jaw and probably giving herself a bone bruise. But both thugs were down—the second one just might have a broken neck; at the very least he was going to have a strained one—and it was time to run like hell.

She never heard the stunner.

“Has anyone seen Shara?” Roger asked, poking his head into the kitchen.

“She was going shopping.” Dobrescu looked up from the reservation list. “She’s not back?”

“No.” Roger pulled out his pad and keyed her number. It beeped three times, and then Despreaux’s new face popped up.

“Shara—” he said.

“Hi, this is Shara Stewart,” the message interrupted. “I’m not available right now, so if you’ll leave a message, I’ll be happy to get back to you.”

“Shara, this is Augustus,” Roger said. “Forgotten we’re working this evening? See you later.”

“Maybe you will,” Ezequiel Chubais said from the doorway, “and maybe you won’t.”

Roger turned the pad off and turned slowly towards the visitor.

“Oh?” he said mildly as his stomach dropped.

“Hello, Ms. Stewart,” a voice said.

Despreaux opened her eyes, then closed them as the light sent splinters of pain through her eyes and directly into her brain.

“I really hate stunner migraines,” she muttered. She moved her arms and sighed. “Okay. I’ve been kidnapped, and since I have little or no value as myself, you’re either planning on rape or using me to get to . . . Augustus.” She opened her eyes and blinked, frowning at the pain in her head. “Right?”

“Unfortunately,” the speaker agreed. He was sitting behind a desk, smiling at her. “I suppose it might be ‘b’ and then ‘a’ if things don’t go as we hope. There are certain . . . attractions to that,” he added, smiling again, his eyes cold.

“So what are you asking? Penalties and fines?”

“Oh, the penalties and fines have gone up,” the man said. “I’m afraid that, what with my costs associated with persuading your gentleman friend, you’d better hope you’re worth a million credits to him.”

“At least,” Despreaux replied lightly. “The problem being that I don’t think he has it on hand as spare cash.”

“I’m sure he can make . . . arrangements,” Siminov said.

“Not
quickly
,” Despreaux said angrily. “We’re talking about interstellar transit times, and—”

“—and, in case it’s not clear to you, the money isn’t all
mine
to distribute,” Roger said angrily.

“Too bad.” Chubais shrugged. “You’ll have the money ready in two days, or, I’m sorry, but we’ll have to send your little friend back. One small piece at the time.”

“I’ve killed people for less than telling me something like that,” Roger said quietly. “More than one. A great
many
more than one.”

“And if I end up as food for your pets,” Chubais said, his face hard, “then the
first
piece will be her heart.”

“I doubt it.” Roger’s laugh could have been used to freeze helium. “I suspect she’s worth more to me than you are to your boss.”

“Chop away,” Despreaux said, wiggling her fingers. “I’d prefer anesthetic, but if you’ll just hold a stunner on me and toss me a knife, I’ll take the first finger off right here. I might as well; we don’t
have
a million credits sitting around at the moment!”

“Well, Mr. Chubais,” Roger stood and gestured to Cord, “care to tell me where to send whatever remains there are?”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Chubais glanced over at his guards, and the two men got up. They reached into their coats . . . and dropped as an oaken table, designed to seat six diners comfortably, came down on their heads. Erkum looked up at Roger and waved one false-hand.

“Was that right?” he asked.

“Just right,” Roger said, without even looking at Chubais as he opened the case Cord held out and withdrew the sword. He ran one finger down the edge and turned it to the light. “Cleaning up the mess in here would be a bother. Take him out back.”

Erkum picked up the no longer sneeringly confident mobster by the collar of his thousand-credit jacket and carried him through the restaurant, ignoring his steadily more frantic protests.

“Roger,” Cord said, in the X’Intai dialect, which couldn’t possibly have been loaded to Chubais’ toot, “this is, perhaps, unwise.”

“Too bad,” Roger ground out.

He and
his
asi
followed Erkum out into the slaughtering area, and Roger gestured to the
atul
pens. Erkum carried the mobster over and lifted him up against the pen. The
atul
inside it responded by snarling and snapping at what looked very much like dinner.

“Care to tell me where you’re holding my friend?” Roger asked in a deadly conversational tone.

“You wouldn’t
dare
!” Chubais repeated, desperately, his voice falsetto-high as the
atul
got one claw through the mesh and ripped his jacket. “Siminov will kill her!”

“In which case, I’ll have precisely zero reason to restrain my response,” Roger said, still in that lethally calm voice. “Gag him. And someone get a tourniquet ready.”

When Chubais was gagged and Rastar had produced a length of flexible rubber, Roger took the mobster’s wrist in his left hand and extended his arm. Chubais resisted desperately, fighting with all of his strength to wrench away from Roger’s grip, but the prince’s hand pinned him with apparent effortlessness. He held the arm rock-steady, fully extended, and raised the sword to take it off at the elbow.

But as he did, Cord put his hand on the sword.

“Roger,” he said, again in The People’s dialect, “you will not do this.”

“Damn straight I will,” Roger growled.

“You will not,” Cord said again. “Your lady would not permit it. The Captain would not permit it. You will
not
do it.”

“If he doesn’t,
I
will,” Pedi Karuse said flatly. “Des—Shara’s a friend of mine.”

“You will be silent,
asi
,” Cord said gravely. “There will be another way. We will take it.”

“Ro—Mr. Chung!” Kosutic came barreling through the door from the kitchen, followed by Krindi Fain. “What the
hell
is going on?”

Roger held the sword, still poised for a stroke, and began to tremble in pure, undiluted rage. Silence hovered, broken only by the
atul’s
hungry snarls of anticipation and the gangster’s ragged breathing. Finally, the prince twisted his sword hand’s wrist, and the blade moved until its razor edge just kissed the mobster’s throat.

“You have no idea who you are dealing with,” he said, deadly calm once more. “No
pocking
idea at all. You and your boss are two slimy little problems which are less than a flea to me, and killing you would have about as much meaning to me. But a Mardukan barbarian just saved your ass, for the time being. He had more control, and more moral compunctions about chopping up a little piece of shit like you, than
I
ever will. Care to tell me where you’re keeping my friend while I’m still inclined to listen to you?”

The mobster eyed the sword, obviously terrified, but shook his head convulsively.

“Fine,” Roger said calmly. “I’ll try another route. If, however, I’m unable to find the information that way, I’ll give you to this young lady.” He gestured at Pedi. “Have you ever read Kipling?”

Despite his fear, the mobster’s eyes widened in surprise, and he produced another spastic headshake.

“There’s a line from Kipling which you’ll find appropriate if I don’t find the information I want very quickly indeed.” Roger’s almost caressing tone carried an edge of silken menace. “It begins: ‘When you’re wounded and left on Afghanistan’s plain, and the women come out to cut up what remains.’” He showed his teeth in a sharklike smile. “If the approach I’m about to try doesn’t work, I’ll leave you, as they used to say, ‘to the women.’ And she won’t be cutting off your
arm
.”

“Ms. Bordeaux,” Roger said, after the three mobsters—one of whom would never again be a problem for anyone, thanks to Erkum’s table—had been flown off to the warehouse in a van. “I need you to go see someone for me.”

“Mr. Chung—” Kosutic began.

“I’m in no mood to be ‘handled,’ Ms. Bordeaux,” Roger said flatly, “so you
will
shut the hell up and listen to my orders. You need to somehow arrange a meeting with Buseh Subianto. Now.”

“Are you
sure
that’s a good idea?” she asked, blanching.

“No. But it’s the only idea I have short of chopping that silly little shit up into pieces. Would you prefer I do that, Ms. Bordeaux? Make up your mind, because I’d
much
prefer it!”

“No.” Kosutic shook her head. “I’d really prefer that you avoided that.”

“In that case, get with Jin and
find
her,” Roger snapped. “If she knows where Ni—Ms. Stewart is, we’ll go from there. If not, that guy is going to be walking and eating with stumps.”

“I thought you said the good guys
don’t torture people?” Catrone said evenly.

“In the end, I didn’t,” Roger replied coldly. “And I might argue that there’s a difference between torturing someone for vengeance and because you need information they won’t give you. But I won’t, because it would be an artificial distinction.”

He looked at Catrone, with absolutely no expression.

“You should have listened more carefully, Tomcat. Especially to the part about Nimashet being my ‘prosthetic conscience.’ Because I’ll tell you the truth—you’d rather have one of my Mardukans on the Throne than me without Nimashet.”

Roger’s eyes were cold and black as agates.

“Chubais is an operator for a rather larger fish named Alexi Siminov,” Fritz Tebic said. His voice cracked at least a little of the tension between Catrone and the prince, and the IBI agent flashed a hologram of a face. “We have a long list of potential offenses to lay against Siminov, but he’s rather . . . tricky in that regard. Nothing that we can take to court, in other words.”

“I’ve known Siminov professionally for years,” Subianto said.

It had been difficult for the two of them to disappear, especially without warning, but Buseh had worked undercover for years, and she hadn’t lost her touch. They’d made it to the warehouse before Roger got there, and the two of them were now bemusedly working a sideline to what was apparently a countercoup.

“He was just starting his rise back when I was in OrgCrime,” she continued. “Very smooth operator. Worked his way up in a very tough business. Did some strong-arm work to establish his rep, and clawed his way up, over the dead bodies of a couple of competitors, since. Polished on the surface, but more than a bit of a mad-dog underneath. Kidnapping is his style. So—” she glanced sideways at the prince “—is ‘disappearing’ the kidnap victim to avoid arrest or to punish an adversary.”