Кристофер Банч - The Return of the Emperor

The man jolted. The fine hair at the back of his neck lifted.

Good luck? From a machine?

The Honjo were a small but firmly committed culture of traders. Their antecedents went back to the early days of the Empire. They populated a system some light-years from Durer, the site of one of the famous Tahn war battles. Their home base was a less than desirable cluster of stars and planets with little in the way of commercially important resources.

This was no hindrance to the Honjo. Their distant, oceangoing ancestors had plied the island trades, and they were ancient masters at the art of playing middlebeing for any product. Their ships were of their own design, although constructed in the factories Sullamora had once owned. They were light, a bit boxy, and made up for lack of speed by being able to deal with just about any atmosphere where there might be goods to buy or sell.

The Honjo were also among the most frugal beings in the Empire. Since their resources were so few, they stockpiled and guarded them jealously. Especially AM2.

That had been a minor source of irritation to the Eternal Emperor from time to time. Since the price was pegged on supply—which he controlled—he was always just a bit touchy about the large amount they kept squirreled away. Whenever he let the price drop, the Honjo were the first in line to buy more. But it was only a petty irritation, and after wrangling with the thickheaded beings a few times, he let it slide. The Emperor had learned that it was usually best to ignore eccentrics. The Honjo performed well as traders, they were mostly honest, and their system was so small as to be nearly meaningless.

One other thing about the Honjo. They were always quite willing to take offense. Especially when it involved what they perceived as their own property. In short, if pressed, they would fight. They tended not to think about the odds.

When the privy council considered the Honjo, they were all in agreement: When it came to larceny, the Kraas had chosen well.

"Me'n Sis sussed it out," the fat Kraa said. "The stingy clots keep it stashed in one place. So, all we's gotta do is send in a fleet. Blow the drakh out of 'em. 'N it's home again, home again, with enough AM2 keep us goin' for more'n a bit."

"I don't think we ought to be that direct," Malperin objected.

"No? Why the clot not? Them Honjo's right bastards, and everyone knows it!"

"Good plan, just a touch short on diplomacy," Lovett chuckled.

Kyes noted that the energy level in the room was far higher than it had been the last time. Was it just because action— any kind of action at all—was contemplated? Or was it the thought of armed robbery that was so energizing? Kyes and his fellow businessbeings had participated in countless forms of theft in their long careers. But it was always on paper—kept at a distance, with at least a cloak of respectability thrown over it by their legions of legal experts. This was real! And, Kyes had to admit, extremely exciting. He was as susceptible to the excitement as the rest.

"Try it this way," he said. "We send enough ships to do the job, just as our colleagues proposed. Except, we send one small craft far out ahead. Something lightly armed. And not too expensive…

"Then, we have the ship deliberately violate the Honjo cluster's borders."

"That'll piss 'em, sure," the skinny Kraa said. She liked where he was going. "Then we just waggle our arses, make 'em shoot…"

"And we retaliate! And boom! It's ours!" Lovett finished.

Everyone was pleased with the plan. Oddly, the Kraas had an important caution.

"We need a bleedin' alibi," the fat one said. "So's it don't look too planned out, if yer get me drift."

They did indeed.

"Perhaps we should stage some kind of economic summit?" Malperin suggested. They had never had one before—there was not much economy to contemplate—but they understood the connection.

"Here's what we do," Malperin said. "And we can achieve two goals at once. It's about time for a little good news."

There were murmurs of agreement about the table. The situation was deteriorating so quickly they were all afraid to look it straight in the eye. But as system after system drifted away from their grasp, it always remained at the edge of their vision, like a recurrent nightmare.

Malperin proposed that they release a canned study, showing that the steadily dipping economic curve had bottomed out and was at last turning upward. Simultaneously, they would convene the privy council for the Economic Summit, a summit they would claim would set the course of the Empire for the next six or seven years.

They would play up the summit as the most important event since the death of the Emperor. Full media coverage. Pull out all stops. She also suggested where such a summit could be held, for maximum suspense.

It would be staged on Earth, in Tanz Sullamora's old fishing camp, now revitalized for the use of the council for their most private meetings.

There they would convene, innocently contemplating things of great and holy importance—the public good. At that moment, the Honjo would make their unprovoked attack on the defenseless Imperial ship.

The Kraas figured the booty would fill a spacetrain ten or fifteen kilometers long.

"That's a lot of clottin' AM2," the skinny one said.

Kyes agreed. It certainly was a clottin' lot of AM2.

Mahoney bounced into Sten's suite, happily singing/humming what he remembered of a medieval ballad: "Let me something my eyes… dah… dah… dah dah dah day, on the something green hills of Earth…"

He crossed to Sten's video display and booted up the news menu:

NEW COURSE FOR EMPIRE

The drop:

BIG 5 TO CONVENE

ECONOMIC SUMMIT

AT HISTORIC RETREAT

Sten read the story closely, Alex hanging over his shoulder.

"We would appear," Sten said, "to have acquired a Target Opportunity."

Mahoney beamed. "Never could figure why the black hats think there's safety out in the boonies. Maybe because they're usually ex-city punks?"

"Ah dinna ken either," Kilgour said. "But gie me a moor w' a wee rock to skulk behin', an' hae f'r a rest, an' Ah'm as happy ae a butcher wi' his mallet."

"That's it," Sten said. "Now… let's kill us some politicos!"

The privy council's announcement was the trigger for the final meeting of Ian Mahoney's "conspirators." They had a single target and a time to hit it.

The "conspiracy" had already gone on far too long for Mahoney's comfort. As a rule of thumb the less time passed and the less those involved had to meet in any covert operation, the less likelihood that operation would be blown or self-destruct. He mentally put both conspiracy and conspirators in quotes. Because while his plan would ensure that anyone involved was for the high jump if it was exposed, there really was not much to it.

Mahoney had, in his "research," looked up many of his old compatriots, as he had told Sten. Once he was conveniently deceased his secret wanderings from galaxy to galaxy had increased. His purpose was simple. Once contact was made with one of his old service acquaintances, the formal dance began. Mahoney set out trying to lead each of them down the primrose path to murder.

Did they agree that things were going to hell in a hand-basket? If so, did they think something could be done about it? Should something be done about it? Should something be done about it by the acquaintance? Would he or she be willing to participate?

That leading took time—too much time. All too often danger signals went off in Mahoney's spook-circuited brain, and he broke contact.

What he wanted from each of those serving high-ranking officers and/or civil officials was roughly the same. If the privy council were to be rendered suddenly powerless, what would the officer do? Ideally, Mahoney wanted that officer to mobilize any forces under command to: