you pour Black Velvet?” Cind asked.
“We pour anything. Or if it doesn’t pour, we’ll get you the needle, the inhaler, or a suppository blank. And I’ll tell Aretha — that’s the name she prefers to use — to come on up.” He left.
“This,” Cind said, “is a spook bar? Correct?”
“It is. Mostly Mantis.”
Every profession had its own watering holes, from politicians to pederasts. And each had its own requirements. The Western Eating Parlor was an almost perfect intelligence operative’s bar. Situated in a capital — the capital, in fact — it was unobtrusive. It would serve its retired or active clients any of the exotics they had become fond of on a hundred hundred worlds. All of the help had some degree of intelligence background, from Delaney the maitre d’ to the barman who was the son of a recently deceased planning type who was waiting his appointment to the appropriate university, to the busbeings who might just have done some contract wet work in the past. The Parlor was unbugged; it was kept that way with frequent, sophisticated sweeps. The press were discouraged, except for those journalists who needed deep background and would never blow a source.
The Parlor, like the dozens of other spook bars, gave its clients not only a chance to get radically unwound, but a chance to pick up on new information or what a new assignment really might bring down on the hapless operative whose control had been less than generous with the facts.
That was why Sten had asked Alex to book dinner at the Parlor. The Eternal Emperor was being entirely too generous for this to be anything other than a nightmare assignment.
Aretha sleeked into the room and curled onto an oversize ottoman, hooves tucked underneath her. She — question mark — might have been taken for a sextuple-legged herbivore, considering the swept-back, needle-sharp horns, the brown-white-striped fur coat, and the hooves on the first and rearmost set of legs. But when she put her head back and bayed amusement, the prominent canines and cutting premolars and molars said otherwise. She ordered mineral water to drink — Sten and Cind immediately put their drink intake at “nurse” — and a slab of animal tissue, pounded and raw. Sten had charbroiled Earth salmon, a relatively new addiction, with butter and dill sauce. Cind also sampled Earth salmon. Raw.
Aretha briefed them — as only a Mantis field operative could. Sten was grateful that she spoke through a synthbox after the initial, polite greetings. Translating someone else’s speech, even when it was in one’s own tongue, could get wearisome, especially if the speaker had a dual diaphragm and evidently was at home in a language with glottal stops and sibilants.
She knew of Sten and his reputation and said she would help as much as she could.
She assumed this woman had a need to know. Helping, she went on, would best be done by her kicking Sten in the genitalia, ensuring that he could not take this posting.
Three years earlier, Aretha had been deputy military attaché at the Imperial Embassy on Jochi, she said. She was recovering from a minor case of zagging when zigging was indicated. Sten estimated her rank at lieutenant colonel.
“Nightmare,” she went on. “A nightmare indeed.
“First let me tell you about the humans, my dear ambassador-to-be. Horrible. Horrible. Horrible. Former miners, with all of the forethought and logic that means. Go to any length to prevent regulation, then howl like a spavined pup when the material being mined runs out.
“As a culture, the Torks have enough imagination to want everything, but not nearly enough brains to achieve it. So that means they will willingly deny anyone else possession of these same mostly imagined treasures. Because the Altaic Cluster can only be considered a treasure if you have a way to package and export hatred and ethnocentrism.
“Consider the Jochians. Perhaps you did not know they were once a self-named Society of Adventurers. Given a charter to plunder by our own Eternal Emperor, long may he wave.”
“I know that.” Sten did not feel it necessary to tell Aretha that the information had come from the Emperor himself.
“Adventurers — pirates at one time. Then their culture swash-buckled itself down into anarchy and city-world solar systems until the oncoming of the Khaqan. The first. There have only been two.
“The Khaqan was also a liar and a thief and a back-stabber. The thing was, he could do it faster and better than any other Jochians. So he rose to the top. Like scum on a pond.
“He either died or was murdered by his son, the present Khaqan. Who has all of his father’s talents at chicanery, and a fondness for building monuments to himself to the exclusion of all logic, needed public works, or continuing the social umbrella. And the Empire did nothing about his excesses while I was there. Possibly the Emperor had larger problems. Certainly, he would have heard almost nothing about how severe the problems really were.
“Unfortunately, our beloved Emperor had appointed an ambassador whose talents — I should not think anything less than complimentary, but allow me to say that in two E-years of intense observation I thought Ambassador Nallas’s primary talent was lunch.”
“What about the cluster’s other beings?” Sten asked.
“Merciful clouds, they manage to fit in very well with the humans. First we have the Bogazi. Have you ever seen a livie on the planet Earth?”
“I’ve been there.”
“That is right. I forgot. Think chickens.”
“What?” Sten said.
“Mean chickens.”
Sten chortled, almost spraying Cind with Scotch.
“I am not even beginning to jest. Fowllike. Large. Two and a half meters tall. Bipedal. Hammer beaks. Beaks lined with teeth. Two arms — hands most capable of weapons use or strangulation. Retractable spurs. Not chicken temperament, however. Except under times of extreme duress, when panic seems to be the correct measure, and they rush back and forth and to and fro, flailing about with all these wonderful evolution-provided weapons.
“They seem to have evolved from an aquatic bird. I understand, however, that in common with chickens their drumsticks are most tasty. We were not, unfortunately, in a position where a little sedate galluspophagism could be accomplished.
“They group like feline carnivores — one male, five or six females. The grouping is called — I am not making this up, either — a coop.
“The male is smaller, weaker, and marsupial — their young are born alive, by the by. Extremely colorful. The females hunt, so they have natural camouflage — not phototropic, such as your quiet assistant, but nearly as effective. They’re highly democratic — but you should hear the discussions before a decision is reached. A rookery. You will enjoy them.”
Sten was enjoying Aretha’s descriptions and company. The food came. They ate.
“Sten has given me all the fiche,” Cind said, halfway through her sushi inhalation. “What about the fourth set of beings — the Suzdal?”
“You could — I could, at any rate — almost get used to them. Think of a protomammal that evolved. Originally a pack carnivore. Small. A meter and a half to two meters. Six beings to a group. Attractive beings — quite gold in color.”
“Why’d you have a problem with them?”
“If I believed in racial memory, which I do not, or if my home planet has fossils of small, pack-hunting carrion eaters, which it does not, I would offer that as an explanation.
“I cannot. Perhaps their language — an incessant yapping — is what is bothersome. For certain what is loathsome is their violence. The Suzdal like to kill. A prime social pleasure is turning an animal loose on open terrain and hunting it down. In packs. It would almost seem that they have an Ur-memory.
“Whatever it is, the Suzdal fit in perfectly with everyone else in the Altaic Cluster — beings who hate each other,