"Second, this clown's never been offworld in his life. A few cycles before Alain got hamburgered," Haines went on, "Dynsman was in hock to his eyebrows to every loan shark around.
"Then he paid his debts and was flush. He hung out with the Psauri—don't bother asking: They're small-time lizards and even smaller-time crooks.
"Suddenly he was picking up the tab and promising even bigger parties to come.
"All at once he hit up every ten-percenter in Soward. Since he'd paid them off, his credit was good.
"Then he disappeared."
Sten ran through what Lisa'd given him. Contemplating, he walked to the railing of her "houseboat" and stared down at the forest below.
Since housing on Prime World was at a shortage, and strictly controlled, some fairly creative homes had been developed. Lisa lived in one such. Her landlord had leased a forest that was legally unsettleable. No one, however, said anything about overhead. So large McLean-powered houseboats were available, moored above the forest. They were built in varying styles, and rented for a premium. The occupants had supreme privacy and, except in a high wind, luxury.
The interior of Haines' houseboat was a large, single room, with the kitchen and 'fresher located toward the stern in separate compartments. Lisa divided the room with movable screens, giving her the option of redesigning the chamber with minimum work any time she had a spare afternoon.
Furnishings consisted of static wall hangings of the single-stroke color school, plus low tables and pillows that served as chairs, couches, and beds.
Sten, on the whole, wouldn't have minded living there without changing a thing. He went back to business. "You've got more."
"Uh-huh. This Dynsman went to the port and ironed a securicop who was guarding some richie's yacht. Exit yacht, two minutes later."
"Where'd Dynsman learn how to run a spaceship?"
"You've been in the military too long, Captain. Yachts are built for people with more money than brains. All you have to do is shove a course card in the computer; the boat does everything else. So the boat did everything else, and Dynsman was offworld."
"Clottin' wonderful."
"Yeah. Well, I got more. Including where Dynsman went."
"So why the glum?" Sten asked.
"The glum is for the real bad news. Background, Sten. When I made Homicide, I figured out that sometime I'd want to file something that nobody could access. So I set up a code in my computer. And just to be sneaky, in case somebody broke the code, I set up a trap. If somebody got into my files, at least I'd know it had happened."
"Drakh," Sten swore, seeing what came next. He stalked across the room.
"Pour me one, too. Right. Somebody got inside my computer. Somebody knows everything I've got."
Haines shot her drink back.
"Still worse, babe. I ran a trail on the intrusion: Captain, whoever broke my file's inside the Imperial palace!"
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"I do not think I needed this," the Eternal Emperor said, quite calmly.
"Nossir," Sten agreed.
"Congratulations, Captain. You're doing an excellent job. I'm sorry as all hell I gave you the assignment."
"Yessir."
"Go ahead," the Emperor continued. "From the gleam, I know you've got something worse than just having a spy here in the palace."
"Yessir. This Dynsman took the yacht as far as the fuel would go, then abandoned the ship."
"Do you have a track?"
"Lieutenant Haines's report said that Dynsman signed on a tramp freighter in that port—Hollister, it was—and transshipped."
"How in the blazes could he get a berth? You didn't say this jerk has any deep-space experience."
"He doesn't. But the tramp, according to Lloyds, shouldn't be too particular. It carries high-yield fuels."
"Mmm. Continue."
"Uh... the tramp's single-load destination was Heath, sir."
"You are truly a bundle of joy, Captain Sten."
Heath was the capital of the Tahn worlds.
"Captain, have you been drinking?"
"Nossir. Not yet."
"We'd better start." The Emperor poured shots from the 180-pure flask and drained his.
"Captain, I will now let you in, on an example of Eternal-Emperor-type reasoning. Either (A) the Tahn were responsible for greasing Alain"—the Emperor's tone changed—"plus some... others, and are running this whole operation, or (B) this whole thing is turning into the most cluster-clotted nightmare going."
"Yessir. I dunno, sir."
"Lot of help you are. Fine, Captain, very fine. Pour another one, don't come to attention, and stand by for orders.
"I'll start with the assumption that I can trust you. You're too damned young, junior, and fresh on the job to be involved with whatever's going on.
"I trust the Gurkhas. By the way, how good a man is your subudar-major? Limbu, isn't it?"
"None better, sir."
"I want you to turn the guard over to him. You're detached. I will be quite specific since I remember from your Mantis days that you sometimes... freely interpret orders. You are to go find this Dynsman; you are to bring him back unharmed; he is to be capable of answering any and every question that I can come up with.
"I do not want revenge, I want goddamned answers, captain. Is that clear?"
"Yessir." Sten touched the glass to his lips. "I'll need support, Your Highness."
"Captain Sten, you figure out your ops order. You can have any clottin' thing you want, up to and including a guards Division if you think it'll help.
"I want that Dynsman!"
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The portal slid shut behind Tarpy's back. Reflexively, he moved to put a wall at his back while his eyes adjusted to the semiblackness. His pupils dilated, and now he could see overhead the spots of light that were stars and spaceships.
The scene in the hemispherical chamber shifted, and it was daylight, as one sun swam into closeup, and the imperial landing force hung "below" it, above the slightly larger dot that was the planet.
Across this moved the black strut-beam that supported the chamber's control chair, and Tarpy could make out the figure of Hakone outlined in the seat.
Again the scene shifted, and now the battleships and assault transports floated above the planet's surface, which wept to either side of the chamber. Tacships flared out and down, and remote satellites engaged them.
Five battleships split from the main force, their Yukawa-drives pushing them up toward the planet's pole, as the transports drifted down toward the landing.
Tarpy ran battles through his head, then snickered as he got it. Of course. Saragossa.
He could never understand why soldiers couldn't let go of the past. To him, the battles he'd fought in were meaningless. All they gave him was promotion, perhaps a medal, and that never-to-be-admitted satisfaction of close-range killing.
Saragossa. As far as Tarpy was concerned, the battle was not only long-lost but one that never could have been won. Hakone's laboring for some kind of culprit had never signified. But he caught himself. Not to reason why as long as somebody's paying the bills. He dug out a tabac and, making no move to shield the flame, set fire to its tip.
Hakone caught the reflection from a dial in front of him and spun the booth on its arm. "Is that you?"
Tarpy did not bother answering. He couldn't be bothered with nonsense—none of Hakone's servants had entry permit to the battle chamber. Therefore, whoever was inside would be whoever was expected.
The long beam swung down, out of the chamber and level with the chamber's lobby. Hakone climbed out, walked to Tarpy, and brought his hand through a 360-degree loop. The "battle" above died as the lights came up in the chamber. "The Emperor has saved us all some research," Hakone said. "We now have a line on this bomber our associate used."