Not out of love. Or fear of losing her. Well... not really, he rationalized, steering to the cold facts of the matter.
When Kyes had confronted the Emperor on that burned-out AM2 station, he had come supported by an entire team of former Mantis operatives. Yet there'd been some kind of mistake made—and the station had self-destructed.
As skilled a soldier as Cind was, she was certainly not as experienced as any member of that grizzled team of stealth warriors. And he assumed the relay station had far more devices for self-protection than just autodestruct.
Sten had spent a small lifetime in Mantis. It was not ego that told him he was the best of the very best. His built-in Mantis calculator delivered this up as solid truth.
He was the only logical choice for the mission.
But how could he say all this to Cind and get her to understand? To see the situation clearly, and unemotionally. With no rationalizations of her own to spare her lover from danger?
He saw the flushed excitement on her face. The dancing lights in her eyes. He hated to kill that look.
Sten told her. She raged at him. She reasoned with him. She pleaded with him. But he held his ground.
Finally the matter was settled. Or at least they'd declared a truce and had agreed not to discuss it for a while.
On the shaky theory that one couldn't eat and be angry at the same time, he rang the mess to serve dinner in the suite.
They spent the first half of the meal in near silence. The second in light chatter. By the time they got to the snifters of crusty old port, the chatter had turned to serious talk.
Sten told her about Rykor and the brainscan and Bravo Project.
"I still don't know what to do about it," he said.
"Some people would wrap it in suit-proof patents," Cind said, "and then sit back and rake in several large fortunes."
"I know I won't do that," Sten said.
"I figured as much," Cind said, with a small smile.
"Besides," Sten said, "the ability to manufacture AM2 really doesn't have much to do with the problem we have right now. I suppose one reason I've put off a decision is because I'm not sure how this is going to turn out."
"I've thought of that, as well," Cind said. "I wake up with the cold sweats sometimes, wondering... What if the Emperor wins?"
Sten said nothing. He refilled the snifters.
"But that sort of thinking is pointless," Cind said. "He either will or he won't. Sometimes Bhor fatalism can save a lot of agonizing."
She swirled the port in her glass. Thinking. Sten could see she was hesitating to ask a question. Then she spoke, without lifting her eyes.
"What happens if we win?" she asked. "Who—or what—is going to replace the Emperor?"
Sten shook his head. "It isn't up to me," he said. "As far as I'm concerned, this is a revolution. Not a coup. Other beings are going to have to make those kinds of decisions. It's their future. Their choice."
"I think you're being a little romantic," Cind said, "if you think it's going to be that simple. You'll be the man of the hour. The rescuer. More to the point, there's the AM2. Whether it's natural or synthetic. From an alternate universe or a processing plant. You'll be the one holding the keys... the keys to the Emperor's kingdom."
"I'm not much enamored of that thought," Sten said. Flat.
Cind put a hand on his. "I know," she said. "And that's why I love you. It's also why I want you to think about it. Because when the moment comes, there won't be much time to decide."
"I notice you didn't offer your opinion on what I ought to do," Sten said.
"I'm the last person who should say," Cind answered. "Do I think you'd make a good ruler? Clot, yes. Would I rather have you to myself? Double clot, yes."
She squeezed his hand. "I'm prejudiced, remember?"
Sten flushed, embarrassed. Cind giggled. "How cute," she said. "You're blushing. Now, I've got something on you. The great rebel leader, blushing like a boy."
"Blackmail," Sten said.
"Absolutely," Cind replied.
She slid out of her seat and slipped into his lap. Sten found his arms fьH of a wriggling, willing woman. Kissing at his neck. Nipping at his earlobes.
"What'll you give me if I don't tell?" she whispered. Naughty.
Sten's hands were busy moving over the form-fitting jumpsuit. Outlining curves. Exploring hollows.
"I'll tell you in a minute," he said. "But first, you tell me. How the hell do you get this thing off?"
She took his hand... and showed him.
The whisper came hot in his ear: "There," she said. "Press... right... there!"
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
THE GUARDS‘ BOOTHEELS crashed louder and closer. Alex hung like a spider in his web just above the great blast doors that led from the huge parade-ground/bailey into Arundel Castle. Waited patiently, eye on his timer, trying to ignore the skincrawl.
It had grown worse the closer he got to the Emperor's castle. Not that he had encountered any concrete reasons for this death-tick. Kilgour's serf-insertion had been a piece of cake. Thus far. And by his own self-deprecating definition.
He had ridden public trans from Ashley-on-Wye to the nearest decent-sized city. Then he had checked to make sure there had been no recent changes to the ID required on Prime World, and that his own fake cards were correct. Then he found a bad section of town, and bought a currently-in-register gravcar at one of the town's graymarket hurleyburleys. None of the unpleasant questions such as Place of Residence, Place of Work, Reason for Cash Purchase, References, or the rest that might have concerned a conventional dealer were asked.
The sled may have been registered, but its drive was in unspeakable shape^4he McLean generator would only lift the gravcar three meters, at max, and held the car at a 15-degree angle to the side. Top speed was no more than 55 kph.
Alex dropped another hundred credits to the seller's purported brother, to get it running right. He knew the "brother" would jury-rig the repairs, and probably fill the lubricant reserve chambers with something on the specific gravity of molasses— frozen. But what of it? The craft was intended for only a oneway trip.
Twenty klicks outside Fowler, the city closest to the Imperial grounds, Alex found a litter-filled field just beyond one of Prime's omnipresent parks. Clottin‘ gorgeous, he thought. Put i' a park, w‘ penalties f'r trash, an' thae'll still be clots thae'll dump their slok ten meters beyon‘ the gate. Exact whae Ah been seekin', however. He lifted the gravsled into the middle of the lot, grounded it, smashed the ignition and choice parts of the drive, stripped its registry off and buried it, and abandoned the wreck.
He hitched into the city and disappeared into its high-rise slums.
Step One, Two, and Three were accomplished successfully— getting onto Prime, setting up a secure base, and infiltrating into Fowler. Now for a cooling-off period. There was just a possibility he'd been tracked from his arrival, and the Emperor's Internal Security was giving him rope, to see what mischief he had in mind. I‘ dinnae be likely, he thought. But why chance m' neck i‘ th' noose? I's th‘ only one Ah hae.
He had rented the room because it had two separate "back doors"—one out onto a rusty, abandoned fire ladder that Alex had secretly reinforced, and the second from the other side of the corner room onto some rooftops just made for a rapid departure. Plus it had a half-arsed kitchen, so he wouldn't be forced out into public view.
After a week of laying low and eating packaged food not much better than military rats, he concluded he had dragged no tail with him. On to the next part.
He treated himself to a bottle of expensive brandy, remembering he would have to dump the flask somewhere else to avoid suspicion, since people in the district he had taken lodgings in seemed addicted to simpler pleasures, such as filtered industrial alk or home brew. And he plotted.