Кристофер Банч - The Return of the Emperor

"We'll be down in about five, Ellen," he told the burly ex-noncom in the compartment.

"We heard, boss. Sure you want us to just stand by? We could have him out by his boot heels in a couple minutes."

"Just stay in a holding pattern. Either he's who I want, in which case he might have more firepower'n we do, or he's not. Do me a favor? You hear shootin', scamper right on in. I'm getting too old for another body reconstruct."

"Yessir. We're ready."

Mahoney reached over the pilot's shoulder and picked up the com mike. "November Alpha Uniform, November Alpha Uniform. This is the John Stuart Mill , inbound for landing."

A voice answered. " Mill , this is November Alpha. Landing beacon triple-cast, apex two kilometers over field. No winds on field. Land as arranged. Potential client plus two others only. Any other crew remain in ship. Please observe these minimum safety precautions. I will meet you at the main house. Out."

Mahoney clicked the mike twice to indicate that he understood. He grinned at the pilot. "Please, eh? Perhaps he is my boy."

The ship set down in the center of the small, paved field. The port opened, and Mahoney climbed out.

It was hot, dry, and dusty. To one side of the field stretched scrub desert and then low mountains. On the other were vast stretches of white-fenced, very green pastures. The air was very still. Mahoney heard a bird-chirp from a nearby orchard, and, from the pastures, the hiss of irrigation equipment.

He walked up the winding road toward the scatter of buildings. Pasture… white fences… barns there. Chutes. A breeding establishment? He saw a very old quadruped—an Earth horse, he identified—grazing in a field. No other animals.

He walked past metal-sided sheds, their doors closed and bolted. Stables. Empty. There was a low wall, and a gate standing open.

He entered and walked through an elaborate garden that looked as if it had gone too long without enough maintenance. There were three robot gardeners at work, and a human near them. The man paid him no attention.

Hard times, Mahoney mused. It takes credit to keep a horse ranch going.

He was, however, impressed. He had seen no sign whatever of security devices, guards, or weaponry. But unless he was completely lost, they were there.

A man stood in front of the main entrance, waiting. He was a bit younger than Mahoney. Not as tall. Stocky. He looked as if he worked out on a fairly regular basis. Not an ugly man, not a handsome man. He wore an open-neck shirt, expensively casual pants, and sandals.

"Sr. Gideon," he greeted. "I am Schaemel. Please come in. I have refreshments."

The sprawling house—not quite a mansion—was decorated with heavy furniture made of real wood and leather. The paintings on the walls were old and all of realistic subjects.

"Each year," Schaemel observed, "I manage to forget how hot and dry New River is in late summer. And each year I am reminded. That is a wine-fruit concoction. It is refreshing." He indicated a punch bowl containing ice and a milky liquid. Mahoney made no response.

Schaemel half smiled. He ladled punch into a tumbler and drained it. Mahoney then got a drink for himself.

"So your corporation's getting whipsawed, Sr. Gideon. A hostile takeover on one side, a union organizing on the other, and you think the union's a setup. Everyone's playing dirty and you need an expert. Excellent presentation, by the way."

"Thank you."

"One thing I particularly admire," Schaemel continued, "is your attention to trivia. John Stuart Mill as the name for your yacht, indeed. Perhaps a bit too capitalistic—but nice, regardless."

Mahoney's hand brushed his pants pocket, and, back in the ship, the alert light went on.

"I'm very, very glad," Schaemel said, "that it was you who showed up. I have been waiting for some time for something like this—or something else.

"I certainly never believed the stories of your suicide, Fleet Marshal Mahoney… I believe that was your rank when you 'retired.' Spies suicide—not spy-masters."

"You are quick," Mahoney said. "So can we drop the 'Schaemel' drakh, Venloe?"

"I thought that identity was safely buried. But then, I thought I was, too."

Mahoney explained: how few real professionals there were; how fewer were not involved with a government, megacorporation, or military; and lastly Venloe's characteristic MO.

Venloe looked chagrined. "And all these years you think you never leave a trail. Tsk. I am ashamed. So how am I to make amends for having engineered the assassination of the Emperor?"

"You assume I'm not here to nail your guts to a tree and chase you around it half a dozen times. The Emperor was also my friend."

"So I have been told. And I have heard stories about you… preferring field work on occasion. But if you just wanted me dead, you would not have bothered to introduce yourself before the bangs began. Direct confrontations can produce contusions on both sides—and you are hardly a young hero any more."

"Not correct," Mahoney said, and the easy casualness vanished for a moment. "If I weren't after bigger bastards I well might've shown up and personally cut your heart out."

"Careful, Mahoney. You corrected me on one of my errors, I return the compliment. We do not take things personally in our trade. It can be suicidal.

"But since that is not on the agenda, may we change the subject? You may tell whatever troops you have for backup they can relax."

He walked to a desk and put his hand flat on what appeared to be a blotter. "My own people are standing down."

He seated himself and indicated that Mahoney do likewise. "I could probably guess what you want. But tell me, anyway. I assume it has something to do with this ludicrous Tribunal I've heard bruited."

"It is. We want you to testify as to the conspiracy. Publicly."

"Me? On the stand? That would be a new experience. Hardly good for my future employability."

"Times don't appear to have been that good, anyway," Mahoney said, looking pointedly out the window at the empty stables.

"The circumstances of my last assignment have forced me to be most careful as to who my employer is. I have turned down some very lush deals because of my supreme egotism in trying for the biggest target of them all."

"Poor lad."

Venloe ignored Mahoney's sarcasm. "Say I agree, however. I stand up in a courtroom and say—say exactly what? That I was hired by one Tanz Sullamora after having performed tasks satisfactorily for him previously? That I located and developed the asset Chapelle and positioned him? And all the details around that? Perhaps. But is that all?"

"Of course not. Sullamora's dead. Nobody gives a clot about him. We want the others. Kyes. Malperin. The Kraas. Lovett."

"Tsk. You want what I cannot give."

"But you will."

"You misunderstand. I cannot provide such details. I could testify that it is my moral belief that the rest of the privy council was part of the conspiracy, certainly. But proof? Sullamora never mentioned their names to me. I never met with them, nor with anyone I thought to be their direct representatives. Don't glower, Mahoney.

"I can offer evidence. My presence here. I fled Prime, of course. But I returned to my home of over twenty years rather than vanish into a new identity and a new part of the universe where I was a complete unknown. Obviously I did not collect my payoff; obviously I have not gone to anyone looking for it. Now, if those bloody-handed idiots on the privy council had any idea that I was Control for that touch, don't you think they would have arranged my disappearance or cooption? More likely the former?"

Mahoney held his poker face. But he did not like what he was hearing.

"So, Mahoney, as I said, I am not your smoking gun, nor do I know where it might be. I will reluctantly offer you a deposition as to my knowledge—but that is all."