Revenge of the Damned (24 page)

"Simple. Fewer people to work equals higher wages. Lower prices means more productivity providing things those people can now afford. And lots of cheap material to build those things from. For anyone with vision, that is. Take all those ships of yours, Tanz," the Emperor said, slipping the dirk between Sullamora's ribs. Sullamora realized that the Emperor planned on sticking him with a lot of those soon-to-be-useless warships. "With a little creative retooling, you'll have plenty of scrap of just about any kind of material going to build some useful products."

"Like what?" Sullamora asked in a bare whisper.

The Eternal Emperor shrugged. "Beats the clot out of me. You've got R&D geniuses. Put 'em to work making some new things to cook food with instead of frying people. Should be easy.

"Hell, Tanz. The more I think about it, we're talking about
real
opportunity here. Almost makes me wish I didn't have this stupid job. A guy with a little brains, a bit of money, and a lot energy could make himself a great big pile out of all this."

Sullamora had to ask the question. "Do you really believe that?"

"Sure I do," the Emperor said. "At least I know
I
could, although you probably think that's just big talk. Fact is, most emperors think the same way. There was a queen, way back when, who used to say pretty much the same thing to her advisers.

"She used to tell them that if somehow she were plucked from her throne and dropped in nothing but her petticoats on any desolate coast, it wouldn't take her long to be running things again. Some of her advisers used to laugh about that behind her back.

"Her name was Elizabeth. Elizabeth the First. Ever hear of her?"

Tanz Sullamora shook his head, knowing his audience was coming to a close.

"She must have been really something," the Emperor mused on. "Some historians think she was the greatest ruler ever. Maybe they're right."

A small wild thought crossed Sullamora's mind. He wondered what had happened to the advisers. The ones who laughed. Had they ever thought about…

"Of course, she was pretty quick with the ax," the Eternal Emperor said, and it was almost as if he were reading Sullamora's mind. The ship baron rose quickly to his feet, nearly knocking over his drink.

"Excuse me, sir," he stammered. "But I think…"

"Are you all right?" the Emperor asked, giving Sullamora a strange, puzzled look. But maybe Tanz was just imagining that. He made an excuse about feeling slightly ill and, after being dismissed, hurried for the door. Just as it hissed open, the Emperor called his name. Sullamora forced himself to turn back.

"Yes, sir?"

"No more surprises, okay, Tanz?" the Emperor said. "I don't like surprises."

Tanz Sullamora gasped out a promise and hurried away, vowing to break that promise the first chance he had.

He spoke uninterrupted for a full hour. The members of the privy council listened in cold silence as he related in complete detail his conversation with the Emperor. Sullamora did not color his account in any way or attempt to paint himself as being larger or bolder than he had in fact been. These were businessbeings who had no patience for hyperbole. Just the facts was what they wanted, and just the facts was what they got.

The silence went on after he had finished. It seemed like an eternity as each one rilled in the blanks and thought over the personal consequences of what the Eternal Emperor was planning to do.

Volmer was the first to break. "But—but—we're looking at disaster here. Doesn't he understand… My God! We've got to stop him!"

And then the impact of what he had just said hit him like a padded club, and he flushed and stuttered back into silence. After an appropriate pause, Tanz Sullamora made a suggestion. He said that maybe they could all benefit from a walk in the woods.

"A walk in the woods" was an ancient political phrase that had originally meant "to seek a meeting of the minds," for a representative of one camp to convince another that both had to swallow some very evil-tasting medicine. It meant a method of reaching a difficult decision without the pressures of the outside world.

Tanz Sullamora meant something similar when he proposed the walk. Except, in his case, there was obviously already a meeting of the minds. He was sure they all knew what had to be done but were afraid to be the first to suggest it. Sullamora was ninety percent correct.

The members of the council walked many kilometers, weaving through the trees and pausing here and there to sniff the air or listen to a bird's song. Pretending interest. Pretending pleasure in the simple things. Inside, each being's guts roiled with acid. Finally, it was Kyes who broached the subject.

"Volmer was right," he said. "I see no other solution. Perhaps it's just as well. The man is obviously out of touch with reality."

Everyone nodded, relieved that it had finally been said. Everyone except Volmer. The man was shocked, frightened. To him, his blurted remark was being twisted and turned into something he was not willing to deal with. Volmer might have thought regicide, might even have blurted regicide. But it was being tossed back at him as bloody-handed treason.

"What are you saying? My God, I don't want any… Look, we're all under a lot of pressure. We're not thinking clearly. Let's all just take our lumps like beings and get back to it. Okay? It's time to go home, right? Get back to business?"

Sullamora came in like a snake. He draped a soothing arm over Volmer's shoulder. He patted his back, ruffled his hair, and steered him slightly away from the others. "A misunderstanding… not what he meant… Speaking metaphorically…" And on and on. Volmer was grabbing at his phrases like a drowning man, agreeing, subsiding, and becoming calm again.

As Sullamora ushered the man through the door of the main building, he looked back at the others. They were all staring after him. The bargain had been struck, the deal made.

Sullamora laughed at some weak joke Volmer had made and pounded his back in manly appreciation—thinking, as he did it, that that was the first place the knife would have to fall.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

T
he rest of Sten and Alex's escape was not the stuff livies were made from. True to his word, Chetwynd tucked the pair away in the lap of luxury, which consisted of an oversize bed with sheets and unlimited time to spend in it—alone and asleep.

It also meant being vermin-free for the first time in years. Being able to bathe in clean water any time they wanted. And there was food! Calories and glutinous calories of it! At first the foods were simple, so as not to stress their battered digestive systems. And finally there was the ecstasy of being able to walk away from a meal leaving food still on the plate.

The various joygirls and boys who offered other services might have been disappointed at the lack of response, but as Kilgour explained for the both of them, "Ah'd need a splint, but thanks f'r thinki't ah me."

Chetwynd left them alone. He knew how long it took for a prisoner to realize he was more than a stubborn survival machine.

Eventually the two were moved out of Heath, hidden below a ton and a half of metal scrap stacked on an ancient, bailing-wire-maintained gravsled onto, Sten guessed, the private estate of some Tahn muckety. Chetwynd declined to provide information, of course.

The tiny smuggling ship hovered, Yukawa drive humming. Sten and Alex were bundled aboard, and the ship lifted off-world and vanished into AM2 drive.

Somewhere the ship rendezvoused with its mother transport, and Sr. Jon Wild greeted them.

He had, he told them, gotten off Romney just in time. The feeling that expert crooks get that the heat was breathing down their necks had prickled his spine—and Wild had ordered an evacuation. He had lost seven ships and his base, but all of his people and, more importantly, his goods were saved. And anyone, he explained, rubbing his fingers together meaningfully, "can acquire a ship and a place to land it."

He was most delighted to be able to move them to safety, he explained. He owed Sten.

Some time before, a small convoy of his had gotten jumped inside the Imperial sector. The next stage would have been confiscation of ships and cargo and appropriate measures for the crew and Wild.

"There was some mention of prison planets," he went on. "Or for those of us considered rehabilitatable they offered some horror called penal battalions. I did not ask for details."

Sten had been Wild's ace. In honest bewilderment he wondered to his captors why they would interfere with an Imperial Intelligence operation. He had been met with loud laughter.

"I suggested they check with their own G, S, or whatever letter they use for the section. Shortly thereafter, to some surprise, the spyboys reported that I was a gentleman born to the colors.

"I am very grateful that you filed the proper paperwork, young man."

With grudging apologies, Wild and his people were freed and continued on about their own, quite profitable business providing Tahn luxuries for rich Imperials, and vice versa.

"I estimate that if this war continues another… oh, give it ten years, I should be able to go legitimate." Wild shuddered slightly at the concept. "So indeed, Commander, or whatever your rank is, you shall be treated, during this passage, as if you were the illegitimate son of the Emperor himself."

The remainder of the voyage was marked by a slow, steady increase in their waistbands, some occasional sweaty moments as patrols, either Tahn or Imperial, were evaded, and more sleep.

Sten figured they were returning to something close to normal after seeing Alex duck into a cabin with one of Wild's more shapely officers.

By the time they were landed on an Imperial base that coincidentally was in a system where Wild "had some interesting people to meet," both ex-POWs would have made lousy propaganda fodder. They should have been bearded. Haggard. Emaciated. Scarred. Ready to testify to the monstrous inhumanity of the Tahn and the ability to tough it out that brave Imperial soldiers had.

The propaganda mills were not even alerted.

Both men knew far too much to allow the public prints near them. They were shuttled to Prime World, and the Empire's most skilled debriefers worked them over using every skill and technique they had short of mindprobe. Sten had been there once, thank you, and would rather not repeat the experience.

By the time Intelligence grudgingly decided that whatever else of value was inside their now-bruised and exhausted brain cells, Sten and Kilgour felt as if they had been crucified by Tahn torturers.

And then the real surprises began.

Both Sten and Alex expected various medals. Not because they necessarily thought they had done anything particularly heroic in captivity, except getting the clot out of it—for which accomplishment they would have cheerfully accepted free alk for the rest of their lifetime instead of a gong—but because when any war got nasty, the survivors tended to collect bits of tin as they survived.

Those they received.

Both of them expected promotions—and had theorized on the long run back whether they would be kicked up one or more grades.

Those they did not receive—yet.

Their orders were quite similar:

STEN (NI) (WITHHELD) Ordered to (WITHHELD) following (WITHHELD) leave time, authorized travel to (WITHHELD). Upon return to duty, you will report to (WITHHELD) for further orders. Conditions of reporting for further duty will be communicated to you by (WITHHELD) date.

KILGOUR, ALEX (WITHHELD) Ordered to (WITHHELD) following (WITHHELD) leave time, authorized travel to planet of EDINBURGH and other systems as desired. Upon return to duty, you will report to (WITHHELD) for further orders. Conditions of reporting for further duty will be communicated to you by (WITHHELD) date.

Sten and Alex looked at each other. Somebody up there had plans for their future. Probability: unpleasant. But there was little that could be done about it short of deserting. And both of them had spent enough time on the run.

The second step was to collect their back pay, which would amount to a small fortune.

One of the few productive pastimes the Tahn POWs had was figuring out how much money they were due and how they would spend it.

The Empire paid its military somewhat differently than had governments of the past. A soldier's paycheck was either given to him in cash on pay period or banked in a civilian bank and allowed to draw whatever interest or noninterest it paid, bank to be determined by individual.

That was
not
done because of any particular kindness the Emperor felt toward each grunt. There were three very simple reasons that, one drunken evening eons before, the emperor had outlined for Mahoney:

1. This is a capitalist Empire. I think. Therefore, money in circulation is healthier than money sitting in anybody's vault.

2. I understand a lot of things. I can sketch you out, if you're interested, the mathematical correlation of the nine basic forces of the universe. I don't understand economics, and nobody else does, either. Therefore, I ain't gonna get involved.

3. Banks what get my troopies' money are very, very rational people. Which means they do what I clottin' tell them, when I tell them, or else suddenly they're on the "Not Recommended For Military Deposit" list.

And so, when Sten and Alex paraded into the Prime World bank that for years had been favored, for some lost reason, by Mercury Corps and Mantis Section operatives, they expected to be greeted politely, as if they were stockholders.

They did not expect to be ushered into the office of the bank president and informed they were now majority stockholders. And if it would please the gentlemen, now that they were… ahem, available, would they be interested in advising the current members of the board on future investment possibilities?

Sten gurgled.

Kilgour, however, rose to the occasion. He reached for a cheroot—real tobacco, it would appear—from a humidor, struck it on the president's desk, leaving scars across what looked like real wood, and inhaled. He managed to bury the subsequent coughing spasm and called for a printout on both of their accounts.