Revenge of the Damned (35 page)

"Tsk. And she appears to have such a bright future."

"Future," Mahoney snarled. "Listen to this drakh."

He read aloud from the news dispatch on the video display. "'Suddenly the smile vanished, and I was reminded that this man is the Empire's fiercest fighter, a leader who sends millions of men and thousands of ships into battle, a strategist whose very presence in a sector has caused the Tahn to surrender in droves.'

"Droves," Mahoney said. "I got more POW interrogators than I do POWs."

"Yeah," the Emperor agreed. "I would've said hordes. Better word."

Mahoney went on. " 'Now we're preparing for the grand offensive,' " Fleet Marshal Mahoney said in a steely voice. " 'Against the Fringe Worlds. I got thrown the hell out of there and didn't like it. I promised that one day I would return.

" 'Now we're going back.

" 'We have the Tahn reeling in all sectors. This should be the death blow. It will be a long and a hard struggle. But this will put us within sight of the end.'

"Drakh, drakh, drakh, charming wife, Spartan but well-chosen quarters, idolized by aides, men hold him in awe, dedicated to the welfare of his grunts. Drakh.

"The hack that wrote that deserves torture."

"
Por que
?" the Emperor asked.

Mahoney started to snap, then caught himself. Okay. The Emperor's getting cute. Getting up, he went to the sideboard and reached for the Scotch. He changed his mind in midreach and poured a blast of stregg.

"Okay, boss," he said, reseating himself. "I'm the straight man. You aren't upset that this writer seems to have bashed security in talking about where we're gonna strike next.

"And this is the first time I've heard about this general offensive. Ignore that. Let's get into the small stuff. Like I never met this hack in my life. And where'd that charming wife come from?"

Mahoney cogitated—then swore. "Boss, you're not really gonna do this to me, are you?"

"Sure am," the Emperor said. "We need a real hero-type general, and your name came out of the hopper. By the way, you think that story's bad, you ought to see what the
real
credit-dreadfuls are doing. How about the fact that you're a real fighting leader—you still carry a hand weapon everywhere. And the story about when you were a young lieutenant in charge of some outpost somewhere and the ration ship was delayed and for six months you fed your troops out of your own pocket? Real admirable. Especially considering you came from a poor but honest family."

Mahoney's father and grandfather before him had first been fairly high ranking officers and then made comfortable second and third careers in civilian megacorporations.

"I say again my last. Why?"

"Maybe the twinkle in your Irish eyes," the Emperor suggested. "Or maybe because I've got the Tahn in a reactive situation and am grinding it in.

"By the way. That wasn't a breach of security. We—or rather you—
are
going against the Fringe Worlds. With every ship and troopie I can strip out of other sectors. And I want the Tahn to know about it.

"Their prestige isn't doing too good these days, what with Lord Fehrle happening to have gotten dead and their legions getting obliterated.

"The Tahn believe in symbols. I'm giving them one.

"Every clottin' 'cast that goes out is talking about how important those clottin' Fringe Worlds are to the Empire and to me personally. There is no way those imbeciles aren't going to take the bait."

The Emperor, having made one of his longer private statements, found it necessary to have a drink or two.

"So I'm part of the symbol?"

"Yep. You'll notice, if you do any reading besides Op orders, that I went and stole colorful bits from at least three old-time generals. And the hype is going to get worse.

"You see, Mahoney, we're going to win. Soon.

"Which brings up the question of what we're going to do with all these clottin' Tahn worlds. Rykor had a suggestion. Seems there's some types who respect the clot out of somebody who beats hell out of them."

Mahoney shook his head. "Don't understand that, sir. My dad always said the only people who fight and make up are tinkers and Englishmen. Whatever they are."

"Yeah. That's the way I've always operated, too," the Emperor agreed. "But we aren't Tahn.

"So you're going out to the Fringe Worlds. The Tahn are going to throw everything at you they can, and you're going to be my little Imperial meat grinder.

"Couple of side notes that might help you. We'll use Naha as a forward strike base into the Tahn worlds. So you'll be able to access a good left hook if you need it.

"Another thing. Seems there's this terrible conspiracy going on in the Tahn worlds."

Mahoney looked interested, if disbelieving.

"Said conspiracy is composed of a whole cluster of Tahn officers who maybe have been recorded as not being happy with the way the war's not being run.

"We can thank our friend Sten for discovering all these quote traitors endquote."

Both men grinned—unpleasantly.

"He built me a conspiracy and sent it forward. Now, some of my—pardon, the Tahn's—most trusted agents are leaking that conspiracy back. Category One intelligence and all that.

"Where were we?

"Oh, yeah. You've just finished slaughtering every Tahn that shows up in the Fringe Worlds with a chip on her shoulder. So next, when we make the final assault into the Tahn worlds themselves, you'll be in charge.

"Don't plan on any long vacations after the war's over, either. Because I'm going to put you in as—hell, maybe I'll call it governor-general—for their whole stinkin' ex-empire. At which point you'll have ten years or so trying to teach the Tahn how to pretend they're human."

Mahoney meditated. Finally, he laughed. "Great stew, boss. Now all we have to do is catch the rabbit."

"Exactly," the Emperor agreed. "Do me a favor, Ian. Don't get your butt whipped out there in the Fringe Worlds. I don't want to have to start planning from day one all over."

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

T
he members of the Tahn High Council gloomed their way to order. The elder secretary drowned through the final draft of Lord Fehrle's official obituary. When he finished, the first order of business would be the vote for approval and then scheduling it for broadcast.

The second order of business would be the vote for Fehrle's successor. What would happen next was anybody's guess.

The king is dead, Pastour thought sourly. Long live the king.

He looked at the tight, guarded faces of his twenty-six colleagues. They were all holding their cards nipple-close to their chests. But Pastour already knew the outcome. He had counted the votes. Wichman's faction of nine was backing Atago. No surprise there. Wichman was in love with the trappings of war. And even among the military-minded Tahn, no single being shone more as a soldier than the Lady Atago.

The second faction—of equal size—favored a troika composed of various candidates but with Atago, Wichman, and Pastour mentioned most often. That left Pastour and his faction: another nine votes, nine swing votes to be played any way he chose. But there was no question in Pastour's mind on how to play the hand. All he had to do was wait through the endless droning of the late Lord Fehrle's accomplishments.

Sten had visited him again in his garden a few nights after Fehrle's death. Pastour did not know how he had gotten in—Sten had not used the drain again. The clot just seemed to appear out of the shadows of one of Pastour's most prized trees. As soon as he had spotted him, Pastour's Tahn emotions had jumped like a crown fire from frightened surprise to pure hating anger over Fehrle's assassination.

"Don't be stupid, Colonel," Sten had warned him. "The last thing your people need right now is a stupid man for a leader. A dead stupid man."

Pastour had pulled himself back. "What do you want this time?"

Sten had relaxed then. He had tucked his weapon away and hoisted himself up on his perch. It was a casual action, but Pastour realized that it was carefully calculated to eliminate any hint of threat from his body language.

"First of all, I heard about the changes at Koldyeze. I wanted to thank you for that."

Pastour shrugged. "There's nothing to thank me for. Nothing you said influenced me. It was the logical course."

"If that's how you want to think about it, Colonel, fine. We were just worried about some friends. Doesn't matter how they were taken care of. Just as long as it was done.

"Although I did notice some refinements from our discussion. A lot of new faces. Important new faces. I assume you're planning to use them as a hole card. If so, I've got to warn you. It won't work."

Pastour could not help showing his curiosity. "Are you telling me that if we held a gun to their heads, we couldn't win
some
concessions from your Emperor?"

"It'll just make him hit you harder," Sten said. "Believe me. I speak from long and very personal experience. The only thing you get out of the Emperor if you threaten him is a lot of bloody stumps."

Pastour understood. That was also the way of the Tahn. Perhaps that was where they had gone wrong years before. The public image of the Emperor was kindly, concerned, that of a vigorous and handsome young uncle with wisdom well beyond his visible age. But that was obviously a falsehood. Perhaps the Emperor was more Tahnlike than the Tahn themselves.

Pastour wondered how bloody the Emperor's vengeance would be if the prisoners—especially the important prisoners—of Koldyeze came to harm. Pastour shuddered for his people. He knew what
he
would do if he were in the Emperor's place.

He pulled himself back. Sten was studying him as if he were seeing Pastour's thoughts form and dissolve and re-form.

"Koldyeze is not why you're here," Pastour said flatly.

"No. That's only part of it."

Sten slid off his perch and started pacing up and down the aisle, casually peering at the plants in their hydroponic trays. "The Emperor is concerned about what's going to happen to you people next. Now that Fehrle is dead. Who's going to take over? Who will he have to deal with?"

"I imagine he would be," Pastour said, not bothering to hide his sarcasm. "I suppose he thinks we're just going to roll over and play dead. Like those old livies. The warrior chieftain is killed. The tribe loses its heart to fight. Another war won and over."

"If you think that," Sten said, "then you really don't know my boss. I imagine what's really on his mind is how many more of you he'll have to kill before you people finally realize you've lost.

"You do know you've lost, don't you?"

The question caught Pastour by surprise—mainly because he had been dodging it in his own mind for some time. And now he had to answer it. It was as if a great black storm cloud had been ripped open and he was standing under its emotional deluge. Defeat. Surrender. Humiliation. But, yes. They had lost. It was over, but there was nothing Pastour could do to stop the insanity. He could not bring himself to speak and only nodded.

"Then all you can do now is fight for what happens after the surrender," Sten said. "Peace with honor and all that diplomatic double-talk. What your people need very badly is a true leader who can deal with the Emperor and still guard the honor of the Tahn."

"And the Emperor thinks that person is me? Not a chance. I haven't the votes—assuming I was willing, of course."

"Assuming you were willing," Sten agreed. Both men realized that Pastour had just stepped over the line with that hedging phrase.

"Here's how the Emperor sees it," Sten continued. "The only clear leader anyone can hang a reputation on is Lady Atago. But she has too many enemies on the council to win the vote.

"Second is for there to be some kind of patched-together leadership group of compromise candidates. Say, Atago and one each from the major factions. I imagine your name would be on any such list."

Pastour knew it would. "And third?"

"There is no third," Sten said. "Only those two choices. And frankly, the way I personally see it, nothing ever came of group leadership. It tends to lead to costly blunders. No one is ever willing to take the blame, so nothing is ever done. Or you end up with political civil war, with no one in charge."

"I agree," Pastour said.

"Then the only logical choice," Sten said, "is Lady Atago."

Pastour could not believe what he was hearing. Sten was right, of course, but why would the Emperor back someone who had to be his greatest and most fervent enemy among the Tahn? Lady Atago was so single-minded that… And then he got it. That was just the quality—or weakness, depending on one's point of view—the Emperor needed.

It was like isolating a cancer that then could be simply and easily removed. Atago would lead the Tahn to final defeat. Someone else would hand over the sword. And the Eternal Emperor was betting that someone else would be Pastour.

"He
must
understand that I am no traitor," Pastour insisted, striking the bargain. "You must impress that on him."

"I will," Sten promised.

Then he turned away, moving toward the shadows. But just before he ducked out of sight, Sten turned back.

"Oh, I almost forgot. How's your health?"

"Excellent," Pastour said, wondering what the clot Sten was talking about.

"I wouldn't be too sure of that," Sten said. "If I were you, after the vote, I'd develop something lingering and nasty enough to warrant a long, well-deserved rest. Out of the line of fire."

Pastour had still been reacting to that mysterious bit of advice when he had realized that Sten was gone.

The elder secretary had finished reading and was calling for the first order of business. Atago and Wichman were glaring around at the other members of the council, sure they had a bitter fight on their hands. Pastour knew that all the private overtures they had made had been rebuffed and that they were resigned to a rare around-the-table battle. Pastour had carefully kept his people quietly neutral. The word was that they would vote for whoever the clear winner was. But there
could
be no clear winner. As soon as Atago lost the vote, the troika proposal would carry the day.