Kyes did not like livies. But he liked this show less.
He stirred slightly as the little tacship crossed the invisible line that marked the beginning of Honjo territory. At any moment there would be a loud protest broadcast by the prey, backed up by a small, heavily armed patrol to warn the tacship away.
The plan was for the tacship to ignore the warning. If that went on long enough, the Honjo patrol would certainly fire. Then the wrath of the Imperial fleet would descend on the helpless Honjo to repay them for their temerity.
For a long time, there was nothing at all.
The Kraas sent out for more food. The big banquet table had already been emptied twice. Most of it had been drunk or devoured by the twins. They ate until even the skin of the fat one was stretched to bursting. Then they excused themselves, so that the obese one could help "Sis" into a lavatory. Loud sounds of vomiting followed. Then the two exited, the thin one flushed with effort and glowing with saintly joy at her after-the-fact temperance.
At first, Malperin, Kyes, and Lovett had been revolted. But the second time around, they became oddly fascinated. It was certainly more exciting than what was going on up on the big com board.
As the waiters were hauling in more supplies, a voice crackled out. A Honjo voice!
"This is Honjo Center to unknown tacship. Please identify yourself."
The tacship was silent, and the excitement in the com room came sparking back. Each of the five leaned forward, waiting.
"Honjo Center, to unknown tacship. You are in violation of our borders. Turn back. I repeat, turn back!"
Still no response, just as according to plan. On the big screen, they could see the tacship moving inalterably on. Another flurry of warnings came from the Honjo, with similar negative results. They could see the small patrol now. A tech whispered to Kyes that the monitors showed that they had gone from alert to full armament. Any moment, a missile would be fired.
Then there was a loud, unconscious groan. Against all predictions, the Honjo patrol was retreating!
"Unknown tacship," came the voice of the Honjo commander. "Be warned! We are recording this violation of our sovereignty. And it shall be immediately reported to the proper authorities."
"Wot's bleedin' happening?" one Kraa burst out. "Why don't the bastards shoot?"
"Clottin' cowards," the other screamed. "Fight, you drakhs. Fight!"
Despite that odd cheering section, the Honjo did just the opposite. The patrol sensibly turned tail and ran.
The council members were mortified. Techs ducked their angry glares about the room, looking for someplace to set responsibility.
"What will we do?" Lovett hissed.
"Clot 'em. Let's go anyways!" the fat Kraa said.
"I don't know," Malperin said. "Are you sure we ought to? I mean, doesn't this change everything?"
Kyes thought it did—but he was not sure. They were so close. The patrol was tiny, the fleet waiting. All that AM2 just sitting there. Maybe...
At that moment, the com screen blanked. Then the startled council members found themselves staring at Poyndex, their chief of Mercury Corps.
The colonel made no excuses or apologies for the interruption. His face was pale. His manner, bloodless. "I have been notified that an assassination team is at this moment in place and prepared to strike.
"Gentlebeings, you will immediately put yourselves in the hands of your security personnel. There is no cause for extreme alarm. If you follow security procedures, all will be well."
The council members jolted around as the door burst open and grim-faced security beings pushed into the room. Then the five rulers of all the Eternal Emperor had once surveyed allowed themselves to be hustled away like little children astray in a wilderness.
Somewhere in the far-off Honjo system a fleet awaited orders.
The team closed in on the late Sullamora's estate. At first they had traveled fast. There were still gravsleds overhead that were clearly not Security vehicles.
At daybreak they had sheltered in a river cave that F'lesa had pinpointed. They had eaten a tasteless meal and tried to sleep, only to be awakened by earthquake rumbles. Quick hand signals were exchanged-reflexively, without orders, they had gone nonverbal, even for whispers. The signals gave redundant, obvious information, variations of "Target on ground," but they broke the silent isolation.
Now, any overhead had to be considered hostile.
Just at dusk, they moved again. Ten kilometers outside the estate, the first passive sensors were encountered. They were quickly given electronic "You don't see anything" signals, and the team moved on.
The sensors became closer together, and more sensitive. But again they were spoofed successfully. Then there was an old road, with a patrol, its time passage exactly what Dum and Dee had filmed. Routine and proper security are oxymoronic. Roving five-man patrols. Mantis, most likely. Again, evaded. A N'Ran crouched to Sten and signed scornfully: "I could dance."
They went on.
A kilometer or so outside the estate, Sten found a hilltop with a decent line of sight and fair overhead cover. "Here. Set up," he signed.
The cases were opened. Two missiles came out. They looked to be standard Imperial short-range, self-homing, fire-and-forget, ground-to-ground weapons. They were not. The propellant had been replaced by a reduced amount of a slow-burning solid fuel. The missiles would be fired from very short, closely estimated range. More explosive went in. The homing mechanisms also went into the trash. More bang went in their place. Space was left for a primitive guidance system near the missile's stern. A small pitot was welded into the base.
Telescoping rods were untelescoped, crossed, and pinned together into simple, X-shaped launching stands. The Archulers unshouldered their packs. Each pack contained a two-kilometer reel of chained molecular wire. One end of the wire connected to the missile, the other to a monopod-mounted passive light-intensification sight with a single, small joystick. The N'ran were ready.
The rest of the team stripped off the phototropic uniforms. Under them, they wore Imperial combat fatigues, exactly the same as those worn by the guard units inside the estate. Sten motioned them down the hill.
More sensors. Physical security barriers, including some archaic razor-wire. Booby traps, passive and active. Guards.
Easy. No problem. A little too easy?
Shut up. A hollow. Signal—flat of hand, going down. Needless. The team dropped. Just in front of them was the final wire—and the compound.
Now the bloodbath should begin—preferably on one side only.
Phase One, scheduled to begin when Sten keyed a tone-com, would be the firing of the first missile. The second would follow ten seconds later. Sten had felt—correctly—that any modern guidance system would be countermeasured or just blocked. So he went primitive.
The guidance system was via that wire the Archulars had lugged in.
Wire guidance had been discarded millennia earlier as an absurdity. Its faults were many: The operator was required to remain in one place and guide the missile to its target. He must have line of sight to the target. The target might also be looking his way and have some objection to being rocketed. Not a problem for Sten—he was back-stabbing, not playing Leonidas.
The wire could snag or break. Not this wire.
But the biggest problem had been the real catch-22. If the missile traveled at any kind of speed, it would take a guidance operator who could also dance on a rolling ball to hit the target rather than over- or under-shoot or, worse, send the missile into out-of-control yawing. They had to slow the missile down. That would give the target time to acquire and destroy the missile and most likely its operator, as well, but that was not a real factor. Luxury estates did not shoot back—Sten hoped.