Кристофер Банч - The Return of the Emperor

Cind had requested an interview with her temporary commanding officer. The first question she had asked Alex was why the change? Had they done something wrong?

"First strike, on y', soldier. Security is security. Y' dinnae need't'know. Sten's got bi'ness ae his own."

"Request reassignment, sir."

"Ae what? Pers'nal backup f'r him?"

"Something like that."

Kilgour growled. "Th' firs' an' only time Ah got in-volv'd wi' a task, m' Mantis topkick took m' back ae th' barracks. She wailed upon m' melon an' informed me Ah'd best learn't'be a professional ae m' task or go back't' sheep-shaggin'.

"She wae right.

"An' should do th' same't' you.

"But Ah'm sophisticated, noo. I c'd gie th' order—'So'jer, soldier!'—'n hae done wi' it.

"But Ah'll gie reasons. So gie your head oot ae y'r gonads or where e'er it's lurkin't, an' listen close.

"One, y'r bosses know whae they're doin't. Second, y're complete wrong f'r whae th' boss is doin't. An' dinnae yammer ae me aboot th' longarm an' how y'been studyin't intell'gence. Ah knoo all ae thae already.

"You're wrong f'r th' run because y're too… strik-in'. You dinnae e'er, e'er, e'er want to be notable i' y'r task is snoopin't ae poopin't. An' y're a so'jer. So'jerin' is a diff'rent discipline thae spookin't.

"But thae's as may be. Last—an' best—reason, y're too clottin' young. Y'believe in things. Y'dinnae ken th' depths ae depravity i' th' spirit. Unless y' grew up bein' nattered ae by Calvinists, ae Ah did. A spook must hae one thing runnin' throo his mind ae all times: Trust nae soul, an' always, always think th' worst ae most selfish ae any an' all.

"A hard an' evil lesson. One y','t'be honest, w'd be best not learnin't.

"Gie y'self back't' th' duties assigned, noo. Ah'll wager thae'll be more'n enow blood't' come. Y'll hae chances't' distinguish y'self ae th' eyes ae y'r superiors or e'en the boss, i' thae's your fancy.

"Dismissed."

Kilgour sighed when she had left. Christ on a pogo stick, he thought. He was starting to sound like a fatherly command sergeant major. Gettin' old, Kilgour. Gettin' old…

At first Sten thought going to Prime was nothing more than an ego-damaging, high-hazard bust. He was looking for three things: any more information on the murder-for-hire of the press lord Volmer than Haines had been able to give Mahoney; a paper trail for that first—question mark—meeting of the conspirators on Earth; and whether or not there had been another meeting before Chapelle was put in motion. Plus, as a secondary goal, whether there was anything more on the Chapelle/Control/Sullamora link than was known, in spite of Mahoney's proclamation that it was relatively unimportant.

Thus far, he had done a very good job of getting zeroes. No, Haines had nothing more on Volmer or the "suicide" of the assassin. She frankly admitted that she had not worked the case any further—it was clearly political. These days people had been known to vanish when they started asking uncomfortable questions about politics. She added, however, that she did not think there was anything to collect, at least not until the privy council was deposed and, it was to be hoped, indicted.

Zero One.

As for anything about that meeting on Earth, Sten found a complete vacuum. As far as he could tell, there had been no contact between members of the council before they somehow, telepathically, sensed it was time to gather at Sullamora's lodge. At least that was all that was in the open archives and what governmental archives Haines had been able to gingerly pry at. Kilgour had been right—the privy council had been smart enough to destroy or classify whatever memoranda had passed between them but not smart enough to make substitutes. Interesting. Ordinarily that would have been enough for Sten, as an intelligence professional, to take action on. But as an officer of the law, he was trying hard to stay somewhere close to its limits and requirements.

Zero Two.

As for his side quest—he found a mansion that had been rented shortly before Chapelle vanished by a retired colonel general named Suvorov. From some kind of Pioneer Division or Battalion or whatever they called those military things, the estate agent told him. Suvorov was right—the estate agent remembered his dress and credit rating clearly. Solidly built, he thought. Oh yes. A scar on his neck. Don't remember which side. Might I inquire why you're asking, Sr. Braun? Proof that the father my client is looking for is not this man. Thank you for your time.

Big clottin' deal. A smooth operator who used the haunts of the rich to launch his operation. They knew that already. Name—false. Build? Who knew? The scar? Probably as phony as the one Sten was wearing.

Slightly More Than Zero Three. But not much.

The second meeting? He could find no trace of any final parley among the privy council before the assassination other than in their official chambers. He did not think they were dumb enough to plan the death of the Emperor in what they must think to be certainly bugged offices. And were they so skilled that they could set up a conspiracy that ran of itself? Nobody, including Sten, was that good. But where was the evidence?

Zero Four. So far.

Sten wanted Haines to be single, the sky-floating houseboat over the forest to still be there, two bottles of champagne, and the vid disconnected. Oh, yeah. A little general peace without paranoia or goons would go nicely.

He contented himself with one solitary short beer and an equally solitary brood.

He glimmered an idea. But it would, he thought, be in plain view. If the privy council were as paranoid as he thought them to be, he could be strolling into a trap. One set not specifically for Sten, but for anyone with the curiosity of a not particularly bright cat.

It seemed, however, the only and last option.

From first appearances, Hawkthorne had changed very little since Sten and Alex had gone there under deep cover to hire mercenaries for what they called "The Great Talamein Beatup." It still was fairly anarchic—any planet that specialized as a hiring hall for soldiers-for-hire had to have a fairly lax government where the ultimate law was laid down by whoever had the heaviest weapons.

But the mercenaries on Hawkthorne looking for a contract were different from the psychopaths, crooks, opportunists, and would-be kingmakers before.

The Tahn War had changed everything.

Any war produced, in its aftermath, mercenaries. They came from the losing armies, from suddenly stateless soldiers, from the ranks of war criminals, from the bored who wanted to continue experiencing that one insane moment of pure life that was combat, and from those who just could not go back to the farm. Generally they were highly professional. But as peace went on, there was a deterioration in quality. Some got killed, some found their kingdom beyond the clouds, some grew up and realized that that moment of life was surrounded by death, and others drifted on to more stable situations that required only the occasional use of violence.

That had been Hawkthorne before.

The Tahn wars created a new horde of professionals. And the necessary economic cutbacks of peacetime, plus the hamwitted policies of the privy council, had made them potential mercenaries.

Admirals would sign on as ship executive officers. Guard generals would cheerfully command a battalion or even a company. Sergeant majors would wear the blank sleeve of a private without complaining—at least for the moment.

Alex could pick and choose. He did.

Sten dreamed of ten thousand "officers of the court" and hoped for five thousand. Alex could have gotten one hundred thousand. He could afford to be generous.

Money? Nae problem. If the Tribunal failed to start the fall of the privy council, how much was left in the coffers would be completely unimportant once everyone involved bought a fast ticket out of town.