It wasn't exactly what he would have called a "good" situation under any circumstances, but at least it gave them a convenient excuse to use the secure rooms in the underground bunker.
"The good news is that the first of our 'machine tools' have arrived from our friends," Rastar said. He was handling the warehouse and restaurant while Honal worked on another project.
"Good," Roger said. "Where?"
Rastar led them out of the meeting room and down a series of corridors to a storeroom which was stacked with large—some of them very large—plasteel boxes. Rastar keyed a code into the pad on one of them and opened it up, revealing a suit of powered armor plated in ChromSten.
"Now is when we need Julian and Poertena," Despreaux observed unhappily.
"These're Alphane suits," Roger pointed out, coming over to examine the armor carefully. "They'd be as much a mystery to Julian as they are to us. But we're going to have to get them fitted anyway."
"And they came through on the rest of it, too," Rastar said, making a Mardukan hand gesture which indicated amusement. He opened up one of the larger boxes and waved both left hands.
"Damn," Roger breathed. "They did."
This suit was much larger than the human-sized one in the first box, with four arms and a high helmet to accommodate a Mardukan's horns. The upper portion had even been formed to resemble horns.
"And this." Rastar opened up another long, narrow box.
"What in the hell is that?" Krindi Fain asked, looking down at the weapon nestled in the box.
"It's a hovertank plasma cannon," Despreaux said in an awed tone. "Cruisers carry them as antifighter weapons."
"It's the Mardukan powered armor's primary weapon," Rastar said smugly. "The extra size of the suit adds significant power."
"It had better," Fain grunted, hoisting the weapon out with all four hands. "I can barely lift this!"
"Now you over-muscled louts know how humans feel about plasma cannon," Roger said dryly. Then he looked around the human and Mardukan faces surrounding him.
"The Imperial Festival is in four weeks. It's the best chance we're going to have on the mission, and if Catrone and his fence-sitters aren't going to lift a lily-white finger, there's no reason to waste time trying for some sort of fancy coordination. Send the codeword to Julian, for Festival Day. We won't tell the Alphanes we don't need the additional suits—better we have more than we need than come up short. Start getting all the Marines fitted to them, and as many Mardukans as we have suits for. Training in close combat in this place isgoing to be easy enough. We'll plan around the details of the Palace that we know. It will have to be a surface assault; there's no other way in. At least the exterior guards are in dress uniform to look pretty. I know the Empress' Own's 'dress uniforms' are kinetic-reactive, but however good they may be against bead fire, they're not armor, which should let us kick the door open if we manage to hit them with the element of surprise.
"We'll initiate with the Vasin..."
Catrone sat at his desk, looking out the window at the brown grass where three horses grazed. He wasn't actually seeing the scene as he sat tapping the balls of his fingers together in front of him. What he did see were memories, many of them bloody.
His communicator chimed, and he consulted his toot for the time. Bang on.
"Hey, Tom," Bob Rosenberg said.
"Hey, Bob," Tomcat replied, grinning in apparent surprise. Stay smooth, stay natural. "Long time."
There was a slight signal delay as the reply bounced around from satellite to satellite. Any or all of which could be, and probably were, beaming the conversation to Adoula.
"I'm in-system for a bit. Thought you might be up for a party." Rosenberg had taken a job as a shuttle pilot on a freighter after resigning from the Corps.
"Absolutely," Tomcat said. "I'll call a couple of the boys and girls. We'll do it up right—roast the fatted calf."
"Works for me," Rosenberg replied after a slightly longer pause than signal delay alone could have accounted for. "Wednesday?"
"Plenty of time," Tomcat said. "Turn up whenever. Beer's always cold and free."
"I'll do about anything for free beer." Rosenberg grinned. "See you then."
"Catrone is throwing a party," New Madrid said with a frown.
"He's done it before," Adoula sighed. "Twice since we assumed our rightful position." As usual, he was up to his neck in paperwork—why couldn't people decide things on their own?—and in no mood for New Madrid's paranoia.
"Not right after a trip to Imperial City, he hasn't," New Madrid pointed out. "He's invited ten people, eight from the Empress' Own Association and two from the Raider Association, of which he's also a member. All senior NCOs except Robert Rosenberg, who was the commander of Gold Battalion's stinger squadron."
"And your point is?"
"They're planning something," New Madrid said angrily. "First Helmut moves—"
"Where did you hear that?"
"I was talking to Gianetto. I do that from time to time, since you're ignoring me."
"I'm not ignoring you, Lazar." Adoula was beginning to get angry himself. "I've considered the threat of the Empress' Own, and I'm ignoring it."
"But—"
"But what?Are they coordinating with Home Fleet? Not as far as we can see. Do they have heavy weapons? Most assuredly not. Some bead rifles, maybe a few crew-served weapons they've squirreled away like the paranoid little freaks they are. And what are they going to do? Attack the Palace?"
The prince shoved back in his chair and glowered at his taller, golden-haired coconspirator exasperatedly.
"You're putting two and two together and getting seven," he said. "Take Helmut's decision to move and Catrone's meeting. Helmut could not have gotten word to them, unless he did it by telepathy. We've been watching him like a hawk. Sure, we don't know where he is now, but he hasn't communicated with anyone in the Sol System. He hasn't even linked to a beacon. For them to have made prior contact and coordinated any sort of planning between Sixth Fleet and Catrone after we moved, they would have required an elaborate communications chain we couldn't possibly have missed. And there was no reason for them to have set up any sort of plan in advance. So the two events are unrelated, and without Sixth Fleet to offset Home Fleet, anything Catrone and his friends could come up with would be doomed. They have no focal point—the heirs are dead, Her Majesty is damned near dead, and will be, just as soon as the new Heir is born."
"That's not necessary," New Madrid said peevishly.
"We've discussed this," Adoula replied in a tight, icy voice. "As soon as the Heir is born—which will be as soon as possible for guaranteed survival in a neonatal care ward—she goes. Period. Now, I'm extremely busy. Do quit bothering me with ghosts. Understand?"
"Yes," New Madrid grated. He got up and stalked out of the office, his spine rigid. Adoula watched him leave, and then sighed and tapped an icon on his pad.
The young man who entered was pleasant faced, well-dressed, and entirely unnoticeable. His genes could have been assembled from any mixture of nationalities, and he had slightly tanned skin, brown hair, and brown eyes.