Кристофер Банч - The Return of the Emperor

He and other ex-Gurkha officers were allowed into Nepal twice a year to distribute pension monies, to offer any technical education they could, and to recruit—until six years earlier, when the Emperor had been murdered and the Gurkhas returned home. Every year, Hosford was commissioned by a representative of the privy council to try recruiting once more. Every year he was greeted with smiles and whiskey and told "We serve the Emperor. Only."

The first two years he tried arguing: The Emperor was dead. Were they planning to abandon their military tradition? Their answer was: "No, Captain. We are not foolish. When the Emperor returns, so shall we. But serve this privy council? Never. They are worth less than one yak pubic hair."

Why did he keep returning? The commission was part of it—he left the monies with village heads for their own purposes. But just being in the mountains, being in Nepal, being with the Nepalese was reason enough.

One more year, he groaned. One more trip. One more rejection. This must be the last one. Otherwise his body would be found, years later, dead on some unknown hillside when his heart gave out. This… well, no. Perhaps next year. But that would definitely be the last.

Ahead lay the Gurkha Center in the hamlet of Pokhara. Hosford shifted the heavy pack of credits and marched on. He knew what he would see from the next hilltop. The center, and some of his old comrades waiting. Somehow they always knew when he would be there. They would be drawn to as rigid attention as their age permitted. At their head would be ex-Havildar Major Mankajiri Gurung, who, unless he was actually his son, Imperial records said was over 2S0 years old. Them… but that would be all.

Pokhara, in fact, was a confusion of noise, music, and youth. Almost, Hosford estimated, a thousand of them, drawn up in what screaming old men were telling them was a military formation, and if they shamed their clan or Captain Hosford they would be tied up in barrels and rolled into the headwaters of the Sacred Ganges to disappear into the sea.

In front of the assembly stood Mankajiri. He saluted. Hosford returned the salute. He should have waited to ask, but could not.

"These are… recruits?" he wondered aloud.

"Such as they are. Mountain wildflowers compared to men of our wars, Captain. But recruits, if they pass your careful eye. Their medical records wait for your examination."

"Why the change?"

"Change? There has been no change."

"But you said you would never serve the privy council."

"Again, no change. These men will serve the Emperor. He is returning. He will need us."

Captain Hosford felt a cold chill down his spine—a chill that had nothing to do with the icy winds blowing down from the nearby mountain tops.

" 'Ow lang wi' the' squawkin't an' squeakin't frae th' Tribunal gae on?" Kilgour wondered.

Mahoney shrugged. "Until every lawyer has his day in the sun, and until every challenge the privy council can come up with now or later is answered."

"Ah hae no plans," Kilgour said grimly, "frae much of a later f'r th' clots. Thae drove me off Edinburgh. Thae'll be ae accountin' f'r that. Wi' me. Nae wi' a court ae law."

"Alex. We aren't vigilantes," Sten said.

"Ye're intendin't to force us inta th' path ae righteousness frae somebody's namesake? Nae. Nae. I' this all collapses, an' Ah'm morally cert it shall, thae'll nae gie us a wee home back in Mantis. Morally corrupted, we are, we are.

"Ah'll nae adjust't' ae world where y' need more on ae villain than enow't' authorize the usual." Alex drew a thumb across his throat.

"If you're through, Laird Kilgour. We are now sworn officers of a legitimate court," Sten said, grinning. "While the lawyers are dicin' and slicin', we have to go out and get some concrete evidence for them to chew over when they get tired of talking about whether the Magna Carta's bridge-building ban might pertain."

"Ah'm noo through. But Ah'll shut m' trap."

The three of them studied the screen projections.

"I've been fine-combing," Sten started. "Trying to read—or at least read a summary of—everything that's appeared on the privy council, from its establishment to the assassination. I've got another team doing the same thing to the present, looking for possible ancillary crimes.

"But let's start with two specific crimes of blood," he said. "First is the murder of Volmer. Why was he iced? We know a pro hit him on an open contract. The contract was let by a crime boss, now dead. The assassin is gone, too. Right?"

"So Chief Haines told me."

"Do you think she was holding out on you?"

"No." All three men were relaxing. This was very familiar to them—the standard plotting session any Mantis Team went through before they opened a mission. The fact that it concerned regicide and high treason was another issue entirely.

"Is she worth talking to again?"

"Probably."

"So somebody's going to Prime," Sten said. "Volmer, one of the privy council, gets killed. Why? Was he passing on the conspiracy against the Emperor? Was he trying a power grab on his own?"

"W nae hae that enow't' guess."

"No. Input: Just before his murder, the privy council met—on Earth. It's the only time that I can find them meeting away from Prime. At least from the public fiche."

"We need to verify that."

"A visit to Prime, once more," Sten agreed. "I'm not sure we'll find any dirt looking at Volmer's death. But it's worth checking.

"Now. The biggie. The Emperor is taken out by one crazed assassin. Chapelle. A nut-case. Is there any chance that he was a lone lunatic? And that the privy council, already conspiring toward takeover someday, seized the opportunity?"

"Negative," Mahoney said flatly. "They moved too quick. And they're not that bright. Except for maybe Kyes."

"Agreed. I ran through your notes, Ian. You had Chapelle's life day by day—and then he disappeared a month or so before he showed up with a gun. Error on your part? Did you have to get out of town before you found those pieces?"

"Negative again. He vanished. All I had is that he'd been seen in company—twice—with that guy who looked rich and way out of… oh for the love of God!" Mahoney exclaimed in sudden exasperation, realizing something.

"It nae hurts," Kilgour said, looking interested, "t' rechew the evidence. Continue on, frae love ae God, Fleet Marshal."

"Rich guy. Control, of course. Which I already thought, not being a total dummy. But I never ran the MO. Crooks use the same modus operandi. So do I, so do you, so does the thug there who isn't pouring. I think it's acceptable to add alk to the equation. My mind's starting to work."

"Ah." Sten got it, and went to pour Mahoney his requested drink.

"Exactly. Ignore the preliminary drakh for the moment, which would have been: Sullamora ran the wet work end of the conspiracy. Died in the blast. Burble, burble, who cares about whether it was an accident or not. The interesting fact is that Tanz Sullamora was too good to ever meet with somebody who's going to pull the trigger. So there had to be a cutout.

"Control. Projected profile. Please record this."

Sten snapped on a recorder.

"Intelligence professional. Established—clean, classic operation. To find or create a psychopath, steer him in the correct direction, and put him in the right place with the right weapon. Chapelle would have had no connection to the organization itself, nor to any high-level person in that conspiracy."

"Ah'll gie thae," Alex said. Both Sten and Kilgour had their Professional Skeptic hats on. Nothing was true, everything was false—the only way to penetrate any kind of apparat.

"I knew that way back when. Control was always who I wanted. Didn't think things through enough. Problem with having spent the last few years runnin' so'jers instead of spooks like you two clowns.