Кристофер Банч - The Wolf Worlds

And Sten bowed his head, waited five seconds, then strode for the exit. He needed Alex's jokes, Bet for more interesting reasons, and about five liters of pure alk.

This salvation thing was a thirsty and wearisome business.

"NO MAHONEYy," THE Eternal Emperor purred, "I do not wish to read the full fiche. I want to consider what you just told me."

"Yes, sir," Mahoney said in a carefully neutral voice.

"You will kindly stand at attention while I review this, Colonel."

"Sir."

"Your Mantis team, and this young lieutenant…"

"Sten, sir."

"Sten. Yes. He managed, with a handful of mercenaries, to topple a religious dictatorship, to convince its fanatics to go grow whatever they grow out there, and to arrange things so that my miners will be treated well."

"Yes, sir."

"I am correct, so far?"

"You are, sir."

"Admirable," the Emperor went on. "Promote him to Captain. Give him a couple of medals. That is an order."

"Yes, sir."

"Now, leave us consider his solution to the whole mess. He turned over the military and political affairs of this whole stinkin' Lupus Cluster to a mercenary. Correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"A woman, I discovered, who deserted from the Imperial Guard facing court-martial, after stealing an entire division's supply depot and blackmarketing it. One Sergeant Ffillips. Am I still correct?"

"You are, your Highness."

"Very good. And the diplomatic, intrasystem, galactic, and mercantile end of the operation was handed to an alien?"

"Yes, sir."

"An alien who looks like a Neanderthal—don't look puzzled, Mahoney, go to the Imperial Museum and you'll see one—and comes from a race of freebooters. One Otho?"

"Yes, sir."

"I want this Sten on toast," the Emperor said in a low monotone. "I want him busted from Captain—I did promote him to Captain, did I not?"

"You did, sir."

"I also ordered you to pour me drinks, did I not?"

"Sorry, sir," and Mahoney headed for the cabinet.

"Not that bottle, Colonel. The Erlenmeyer flask. One hundred eighty proof. Open us two beers to go with it. I think I may find myself very drunk while I'm trying to find out if I can legally torture one of my officers."

Mahoney was starting to enjoy this. But he kept his smile buried as he poured shotglasses and cut the tips off beerjugs.

"Sten. Sten. Why do I know the name?"

"He killed Baron Thoresen, sir. Against your orders. You remember, the Vulcan affair."

"And I didn't send him to a penal battalion then?"

"No, sir. You promoted him to lieutenant."

The Eternal Emperor threw down the shot, shuddered, and sipped beer as he fed the mission report fiche into his viewer.

"Interesting ideas this Sten has," he mused, sipping beer.

"Overthrow the tyrant and then appoint a council of church elders to study the matter. They should have their report ex cathedra in, what, Mahoney? A thousand years?"

"More than that, sir." Mahoney gurgled, still recovering from the pure alcohol. "He said he chose the longest-winded theologicians he could find. More like two thousand."

The Emperor shut off the viewer, got up, grabbed the flask, and poured two more shots. He gasped his down, then mused aloud:

"Mantis Section. Why do I keep you people around, since you insist on doing exactly what I want, exactly in the manner I don't want?"

Mahoney stuck with beer drinking and silence.

"Correction to my last order, Colonel," the Emperor said, smiling in a moderately evil manner. "Do not court-martial this Sten.

"I want him.

"Detach him from Mantis and Mercury. Give him some kind of acceptable hero background in the Guard.

"Ummm," Mahoney insubordinated.

"Captain Sten is now the commander of my personal bodyguard. The Gurkhas."

And Mahoney's shot went across the room and the beerjug gurgled out, unnoticed, on the carpet.

"God damn it, your Majesty, how the clot can I run an intelligence service when you keep stealing my best men?"

"Good point, Colonel." The Eternal Emperor took a tiny order fiche from his desk and Mahoney realized just how badly he'd been set up.

"These are your orders—Congratulations, General Mahoney, and my further congratulations on your detachment and reassignment from Imperial Headquarters to command the First Guards Assault Division."

Mahoney threw the fiche to the floor, which was an ineffective gesture, since the tiny bit of plas insisted on drifting downward.

"You can't clottin' do this to me! I just spent seventy-five years building up this clottin' Mercury Corps, and—"

"And I am the god damned Eternal Emperor," the man growled and came around his desk. "I can do what I clotting well please, General, and congratulations on your new post and am I going to have to whip your ass to get you to drink with me?"

Mahoney considered for a second, then started chuckling.

"No, sir, your Imperial Majesty, sir. Thank you, sir. Since I have no choice, your Imperial Majesty, sir, I accept."

Besides, Mahoney was not at all sure he could take the Emperor. Let alone what would come afterward if he did.

The Emperor grunted and poured more drinks. "You served me well, lan. I know you'll continue to do the same in your new position. And clot it, don't make things so hard for me when I want to be nice for a change.

"But don't forget this Sten," the Eternal Emperor said, reaching for the flask. "I have an idea he is going to go very far indeed.

"In fact, I'll give you one of my predictions.

"Sten will either end up on the gallows or as a Fleet Admiral."

And the two men drank deeply.