Throne of Stars (91 page)

“Could somebody
please
shut him up?” Clovis said from the seat next to Dave. “Before we’re one short on the mission?”

“Well!” Dave said in a squeaky, teenaged female voice. “I don’t think that’s a very nice thing to say! I swear, some of the dates I agree to go on . . .”

“I’m gonna kill him,” Clovis muttered “I swear it. This time, he’s gonna bite it.”

“B-b-but
Cloooovis
,” Dave whined, “I thought you were my
friend
!”

The airvan pulled up in front of a hastily rented warehouse several blocks from the Greenbrier facility, then floated inside as the doors slid open. It eased to a stop in the middle of the empty warehouse, and Roger watched as Catrone’s “friends” unloaded.

The driver looked remarkably like Roger had before his bod-mod. Shorter—he was probably 170 centimeters—but with long blond hair that was slightly curly and fell to the middle of his back, and a chiseled, handsome face. He moved with the robotic stride of a well-trained fighter, light on his feet, and had hugely muscled forearms.

“Trey Jacobi,” he said, crossing to where Roger waited beside Catrone.

“Trey’s a very good general operator,” Catrone said, “and a former local magistrate. He’s also our defense lawyer, so watch him.”

“Who’s my newest client?” Trey asked, holding out his hand to Roger.

“This is Mr. Chung,” Catrone replied. “He’s . . . a good friend. A very important person to me. He’d probably handle this on his own, but he has a pressing business engagement tomorrow.”

The individual who climbed out of the driver’s side rear door was a huge moose of a man, with close-cropped hair. He strode over like a soldier and stopped, coming to parade rest.

“Dave Watson,” Catrone said. “He’s a reserve officer with the San-Angeles PD.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Dave stuck out his hand, shook Roger’s, and then resumed his position of parade rest, his face stern and sober.

“This is Bill Copectra,” Catrone continued, as a short, stocky man came around the front of the van. “He does electronics.”

“Hey, Tomcat,” Bill said. “You’re going to owe us one very goddammed big one for this. If you had a daughter, that would be the down payment.”

“I know,” Catrone replied, shaking his head.

“I had a hot date for this weekend, too,” Bill continued.

“You’ve always got a date,” the last man said. He was a bit taller than Bill, and wider, with oaklike shoulders, short-cut black hair, and a wide, flat face. He walked with a rolling stride which suggested to Roger either a sailor or someone who spent a lot of time on
civan
back. Make that horseback, this being Old Earth.

“This is Clovis Oyler,” Catrone said. “Deputy officer with the Ogala department. Entry.”

“That’s usually my spot,” Roger said, nodding as he shook Oyler’s hand. “Charge?”

“Usually a modified bead gun,” Oyler replied. “You can’t stay on the door with a charge. And there’s not many doors that won’t go down with a blast from a twelve-millimeter bead.”

“With a twelve-millimeter, you’re not going to have many shots left,” Roger pointed out.

“If you need more then three or four, you’re in the wrong room,” Oyler answered, as if explaining to a child.

“Tac-teams.” Roger looked at Catrone and nodded. “Not combat soldiers. For your general information, Mr. Oyler, I usually do the entry in a tac-suit or powered armor and ride the entry charge through. Sometime we’ll see who’s faster,” he added with a grin.

“Told you there was a difference,” Catrone said. “And Clovis’ technique does tend to leave more people alive and unmangled on the other side of the door.”

He shrugged, then turned back to Copectra.

“Bill, we’ve got an address. We need a surveillance setup. Dave will emplace—taps and external wire. We need a schematic on the building and a count on the hostiles. Clovis, while Bill and Dave take care of that, you do weapons prep. Trey, you do initial layout.”

“What are you going to be doing?” Trey asked with a frown. Catrone normally took layout himself.

“I’ve got another operation to work on,” Catrone replied. “I’ll be here for the brief, and on the op.”

“What’s the other op?” Trey asked. “I’m asking as your counsel, here, you understand.”

“One of the kind where, if we need an attorney, he won’t do us much good,” Roger replied.

“Prince Jackson,” General Gianetto said over the secure com link, “we have a problem.”

“What?” Adoula responded. “Or, rather, what now?”

“Something’s going on in Home Fleet. There’ve been a lot of rumors about what’s happening in the Palace, some of them closer to reality than I like. I think your security isn’t the best, Prince Jackson.”

“It’s as good as it can get,” Adoula said. “But rumors aren’t a problem.”

“They are when the Navy gets this stirred up,” Gianetto noted. “But this is more than just rumors. CID picked up a rumor about a mutiny brewing among the Marines. They’re planning something—something around the time of the Imperial Festival. And I don’t like the codename one bit. It’s ‘Fatted Calf.’”

Adoula paused and shook his head.

“Something from the Bible?” he asked incredulously. “You want me to worry about a Marine mutiny based on the
Bible
?”

“It’s from the parable of the
prodigal son
, Your Highness,” Gianetto said angrily. “Prodigal son. You roast the fatted calf when the
prodigal son
returns.”

“Roger’s dead,” Adoula said flatly. “You
arranged
that death, General.”

“I know. And if he’d survived, he should have turned up somewhere within the first few weeks after his ‘accident.’ But it looks like
somebody
believes he’s alive.”

“Prince Roger is
dead
,” Adoula repeated. “And even if he weren’t, so what? Do you think that that airhead could have staged a countercoup? That anyone would have
followed
him? For God’s sake, General, he was
New Madrid’s
son! No wonder he was an idiot. What was the phrase you used about one of the officers I suggested? He couldn’t have led a platoon of Marines into a brothel.”

“The same can’t be said for Armand Pahner,” Gianetto replied. “And Pahner would fight for the
Empress
, not Roger. Roger would just be the figurehead. And I’m telling you, something is going down. The Associations are stirring, the Marines are contemplating mutiny, and Helmut is moving
somewhere
. We have a serious situation here.”

“So what are you doing about it?” Adoula demanded.

“What’s the most critical point we have to secure?”

“The Empress,” Adoula said. “And myself.”

“Okay,” Gianetto replied. “I’ll beef up security around Imperial City. Where I’ll get it from is going to be an interesting question, since we don’t have that many ground forces we know are loyal. But I’ll figure it out. Beef up security around the Palace, as well. As for you, you need to be
moving
the day of the Festival.”

“I’m supposed to be a participant,” Adoula said with a frown. “But I’ll send my regrets.”

“Do that,” Gianetto said dryly. “At the last minute, if you want a professional suggestion.”

“What about the Marines?” Adoula asked.

“I’ll replace Brailowsky,” Gianetto said. “And have a little chat with him.”

“Okay,” Eleanora said, breaking into one of the final planning sessions. “We have a real problem.”

“What?” Roger asked.

“Sergeant Major Brailowsky was just arrested, and the Marine web sites are all talking about Fatted Calf. I think Kjerulf was a little free with information.”

“Shit.” Roger looked at the clock. “Twelve more hours.”

“Ask me for anything but time,” Catrone replied.

“They’re going to sweat him,” Marinau said. “He’s resistant to interrogation, but you can get anything out of anybody eventually.”

“He’s going to be in the Moonbase brig,” Rosenberg said. “That’s lousy with Navy SPs. We can’t just spring him quietly.”

“Greenberg is still in place,” Roger pointed out. “If he knows Kjerulf is on our side, and Brailowsky would have to, since they’re talking about ‘Fatted Calf,’ then we’ll lose Kjerulf, as well. And they’ll know it’s going down sometime around the Festival.”

“And Kjerulf knows it has to do with Mardukans,” Eleanora said with a wince.

“And there’s now a warning order on the IBI datanet,” Tebic said, looking up from his station. “A coup attempt planned for around the Imperial Festival.”

“They know everything important,” Catrone said flatly, shaking his head. “We should abort.”

Everyone looked at Roger. That was what Catrone realized later—much later. Even
he
looked at Roger. Who was looking sightlessly at the far wall.

“No,” the prince said after a long pause. “Never take council of your fears. They know about Helmut, but that was obvious. They suspect I may be alive, but they don’t know about Miranda.”

He paused and consulted his toot.

“We move it up,” he continued, his voice crisp. “It’ll take time for them to do anything. Orders have to be cut, plans have to be made, squadrons moved, questions answered. Temu,” he looked at Jin, “you’ve been managing the parade permits. Can we jump the queue? Get the Parade Marshal to move us forward to first thing in the morning?”

“We can if you’re willing to risk slipping a little cash into someone’s pocket,” Jin said after a moment, “and I think I know which pocket to fill. But there’s a chance he might smell a big enough rat to raise the alarm.”

“Assess the odds,” Roger said, and the extremely junior IBI officer closed his eyes for fifteen seconds of intense thought.

“Maybe one in five he’ll smell something, but no more than one in ten that he’ll do anything except ask for more cash if he does,” he said finally, and Roger frowned. Then the prince shrugged.

“Not good, but under the circumstances, better than waiting for Brailowsky to be sweated,” he decided, and turned to the other IBI agents.

“Okay, Fatted Calf is the codeword, apparently. Tebic, can you insert something covertly on the Marine sites—the ones they read?”

“Easy,” Tebic said.

“Codeword Fatted Calf. Insert it so it will read out at oh-seven-hundred. That’s seven hours from now. That’s the kickoff time.”

“What about Helmut?” Catrone asked.

“Nothing we can do about that,” Roger said. “He was scheduled to turn up at ten, and that’s when he’ll turn up. I hope.”

Catrone nodded at the prince’s qualifier. Unfortunately, they still hadn’t gotten any confirmation from Helmut that he’d even received Roger’s instructions, much less that he’d be able to comply with them.

“We don’t know anything for sure about Helmut at this point,” Roger continued, “but we do know we
need
Kjerulf. He and Moonbase are right on top of us. If he can’t at least confuse things up there long enough for us to take the Palace, we’re all dead, anyway. And if we wait for Helmut, we lose Kjerulf.”

He shrugged, and Catrone nodded. Not so much in agreement as in acceptance. Roger nodded back, then returned his attention to Tebic.

“On the Moonbase net,” he said. “Add: Get Brailowsky.”

“Got it.”

“You sure about that?” Catrone asked. “Security is going to be monitoring.”

“Let them,” said the prince who’d fought his way halfway around a planet. “We don’t leave our people. Ever.”

“We need one more thing,” Roger said. It was a clear Saturday in October, the first day of the Imperial Festival. A day when the weather computers knew damned well to make sure the weather in Imperial City was
perfect
. Clear, crisp, and beautiful, the sun just below the horizon in Imperial City. The Day. Roger was staring unseeingly at the schematic of the Palace, fingering the skintight black suit that was worn under armor.

“Yeah, backup,” Catrone said, looking at the plan one more time. It was going to be tight, especially with the Bad Guys expecting it. And they were all tired. They’d intended to get some sleep before the mission kicked off, but what with last-minute details and moving it up . . .

“No, I was talking about Nimashet,” Roger said, and swallowed. “They’re going to kill her the moment your team hits.”

“Not if they think it’s the cops,” Catrone pointed out. “They’re not going to want a dead body on their hands on top of everything else. I’m more worried about Adoula killing your mother, Roger. And you should be, too.”

“We can’t count on that,” Roger said, ignoring the jab. “Remember what Subianto said about Siminov—a polished mad-dog, remember? And as much as you say your team is the best of the best, they’re not
my
best. And my best, Mr. Catrone, is pretty damned good. And I do know one person I
can
count on.”

“We don’t need another complication,” Catrone said.

“You’ll like this one,” Roger said, and grinned ferally.

Pedi Karuse liked to dress up. She especially liked the variety available on Old Earth, and she’d decided on a nice gold-blonde dress that matched the color of her horns. It had been fitted by a very skilled seamstress—she’d had to be to figure out how to design a dress for a pregnant Mardukan that didn’t look decidedly odd. Pedi had matched it off with a pair of sandals that clearly revealed the fact that Mardukans had talons instead of nails on their feet. The talons were painted pink, to match the ones on her fingers. Her horns had also been expertly polished only a few hours before, by a very nice Pinopan woman named Mae Su, who normally did manicures. Humans had all sorts of dyes and colors, but she’d stayed with blonde this time. She was considering dying them red, since one of the humans said she was a natural redhead personality, whatever that meant. But for now, she was a blonde.

There was the problem of Mardukan temperature regulation, of course. In general, they had none. Mardukans were defined by Doc Dobrescu, who’d become the preeminent (if more or less unknown) authority on Mardukan physiology, as “damned near as cold-blooded as a toad.” Toads, by and large, do not do well on cold mornings in October in Imperial City. Most of the Mardukans dealt with this by wearing environment suits, but they were so . . . utilitarian.

Pedi dealt with this sartorial dilemma—and the frigid environment—in several ways. First, she’d been studying
dinshon
exercises with Cord since she’d first met him.
Dinshon
was a discipline Cord’s people used to control their internal temperature, a form of homeopathic art. Part of it was herbal, but most of it was a mental discipline. It could help in the Mardukan Mountains, where the temperatures often dropped to what humans considered “pleasant” and Mardukans considered “freezing.” Given that this particular morning was what
humans
considered “freezing,” Mardukans didn’t even have a fitting descriptive phrase short of “some sort of icy Hell.”