There were three requirements:
1. The conspiring officer had to have complained about how the war was going. Even a recorded mutter into a shaving mirror made the officer eligible. So, in that manner, Admiral Whoosis on the Sabac made the grade.
2. The conspiring officer had to be highly respected.
3. The conspiring officer had to have served in combat, on a frontline world, or, during peacetime, on a world where there was an Imperial presence.
It was not necessary that the eager conspirator actually be anything other than a rabid believer in the Tahn right to grab anything around from anyone weaker. As a matter of fact, Sten did not want anyone like that. People with real politics made him nervous—even if he had been able to find any.
Once Sten and Kilgour had the list, they put it up on a computer screen and started cross-connecting the conspiracy. The officers chosen for links needed no particular qualifications, except that their absence would not improve Tahn efficiency. That was, for instance, how the third assistant paymaster general, the Tahn Counterintelligence number two, and the chief of the chaplain's acolyte division became dangerous threats.
Once Kilgour had the list all neat and tidy, it went out on a burst transmission to the Imperial base station located somewhere they never knew for appropriate usage.
Most of the conspiracy list was handled by Alex. Sten had another problem: Lord Fehrle's "show the flag" tour. It did not make any sense. Not that the tour made no sense—but everybody seemed to know about it. Either Tahn Security was composed of numbwits—which Sten did not dare let himself believe—or else everyone connected with the tour was suffering from terminal oral diarrhea.
He sent through the reports of when Fehrle was going, where Fehrle was going from the Arbroath worlds onward, what he would eat and drink, where he would be banqueted, and whom he would meet straight on to the Empire. All graded Category Two or lower, ranging from reliable source, personally received, down to outhouse rumor. But none of it was Category One: accepted by this station as truth.
Then one afternoon Chetwynd sent word, through the cutouts, that he wanted a meet.
They fenced recreationally for a couple of drinks. Wasn't it about time that Chetwynd's credit allowance was increased? Couldn't he be more helpful to the cause if Sten gave him some idea as to what was happening next? Had he heard anything about a new offensive failing? Then he got down to it.
"One a' my longtime cheenas hit on somethin' you might find interesting. He's one of my best agents, y' know."
"A thief, in other words."
Chetwynd looked ponderously injured. "Clot, Sten, don't be so suspicious. The clot's a hard-core freedom fighter."
"I stand corrected. A good thief."
"He was out last night. Around the 23YXL area of the port. Y' know, that's where most of the bonded warehouses are. He was looking for good intelligence and—" Chetwynd chuckled and drank. "—anything else that wasn't riveted down.
"Came on this warehouse. Security up the yahoo. Which was interestin'. He got up on the rooftop and snaked in. All of a sudden couple Tahn plainclothes come out from behind a vent. Damn near popped him.
"He come off that roof and said the place was crawlin' with rozzers. Funny—he said he knew a couple of 'em. CI, they was.
"Dunno what's in that warehouse. But thought you might want to be tipped the wink."
Chetwynd waited. Sten dug out a wad of credits and passed them across. They were not given with any pretense on either side that they were intended for Chetwynd's organization. Maybe Chetwynd's tier ranger, if he was indeed a longtime cheena, might see a little of it. But probably not.
Kilgour swept the warehouse with a palm-size set of available-light binocs and hissed through his teeth. "Thae tub's wae bein't conservative. Thae's more screws around yon warehouse thae a Campbell hae fleas."
There were other interesting things happening. A ship had landed about half a kilometer beyond the warehouse. Sten IDd it as being a standard armed transport—but with very non-standard security around it. The ship sat on an absolutely bare stretch of tarmac. There were three, no, four rings of guards around it, uniformed soldiery, each bashing his beat in a military manner. Between the rings, searchlights mounted on portable towers on the field's edges swept the darkness.
"The ship's bein't loaded," Kilgour whispered. "An' by a braw crew ae stevedores."
He passed the binocs to Sten, who looked and nodded.
"The only civilian thing about them is they ain't in step."
Fascinating. Not only did the warehouse obviously hold something enormously valuable—which made it enormously interesting for Imperial Intelligence—it was being loaded by soldiers in the dead of night. Sten rather wanted to pry open one or another of those unmarked crates. They were being loaded very carefully, he noted, as if they contained delicate merchandise.
Kilgour, mumbling, had a tiny multifunction computer dug out of his boot and was tapping keys and staring intently at the ship. Sten concentrated on the warehouse and put his Mantis joint-casing skills to work.
Can we sneak in? Not unless somebody happens to come up with an invisibility suit. Can we go in over the roof? We've got to be sneakier than Chetwynd's boyo. Unlikely. Under? No time to play caver—at the rate they're moving, the ship will be loaded by dawn. What about a simple walk-up? Pretending to be some kind of warehouse inspector? A superior officer? Negative on both. Not that we can't get out if we're blown—but I have this feeling I'm not going to want anybody to know we were here. Join the loading party? Nope. Ten-man teams. Even the Tahn noncoms would notice if there were more spear-carriers than the number of fingers on each hand.
"Ah think w' kin do it, boss," Kilgour broke in. "Ah've been runnin't a timer on thae guards. There are lapses. An' thae searchlights dinnae cross-sweep like thae should."
Sten stared at the completely bare expanse between the building they crouched next to and the ship and gulped in a cowardly manner. "Choreograph it, Mr. Kilgour."
Five minutes later:
"On thae count... be following man twinkli't toes... three... two... now!"
And the two black-clad men trotted out toward the ship.
"Sixteen... seventeen... down, boss! One, two, three, four, five... up. Twenty paces... down!"
They became part of the tarmac as the searchlight beam passed very close to them.
"Eleven, twelve, now! Three, four, five... six and freeze!"
The only music they "danced" to as they crossed the field was their own hoarse breathing.
"The skid, boss. Straight for it an' look like a shock absorber. Two, one, on th' way, lad!"
Sten flattened himself next to the huge, grease-stained landing skid, wondering if he actually did look like an oleo strut.
"Na," Alex growled in his ear, "if Ah'm right, we'll be doublin't up thae gangplank shortly. Y' ken thae ramp watch is posted behin' an' under thae ramp. Lookit like he nae like thae glare when the beams hit him. So be goin't up softly, wee Sten. W' dinnae want thae thunder ae y' hooves alertin' him."
"And if there's a watch inside the ship?"
"We'll say we're solicitin' frae the home f'r wayward banshee bairns an' scoot wi' a smile. Three... two... hit it!"
Running on tiptoe up a ramp—even a cleated ramp—was interesting. Pointe, uphill, was straining.
They made it through the port. Kilgour was lucky—there was no interior boarding watch posted.
Sten extended his hands, palm up. Well? Kilgour shrugged, then spotted an order board and grabbed it. Assuming a worried expression, he waved them forward into the heart of the ship.