The Return of the Emperor (26 page)

Raschid let him bellow, saw that T'Orsten wasn't letting steam but building for a berserker, and blindsided him. They tucked him away next to Moran and went back to the wardroom.

Raschid opened, read the sealed shipping instructions, lifted an eyebrow, and passed the sheets across to Pitcairn.

"I guess that settles what's next," she said. She was a little pale. "We look for some smugglers, dump the cargo and the ship, and do our damndest to vanish."

She quoted from the instructions: " 'Land bleat-bleah section, transmit blurt-blurt signal. Cargo will be offloaded by personnel bearing authorization personally signed by Tyrenne Yelad, duplicate signature below.'

"Just the whole goddamned system's MaxMoFo, is all. And we just took his toys away. Nice going."

There was something moving in the back of Raschid's mind. Yelad… Yelad…

"Workers of the
Santana
, haul ass! You have everything to lose including your chains," Pitcairn finished.

"No," Raschid said. "No," he went on. "I think we make delivery."

Ignoring the gape, he fielded a bottle and poured himself a celebratory drink. Things were going very well, indeed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

T
he Privy Council reacted in confused fury to the raid on the AM2 convoy. The crime against the Empire—
their
Empire—seemed an even greater felony because they had stolen it themselves. Add to that the tremendous cost in blood and credits, the enormous hopes they had placed on the many extra months the AM2 shipment would have provided, and, finally, the humiliation that a wild gang of pirates had bested Imperial forces.

Plots within plots were hinted at within the fabric of the raid. Were the Honjo themselves involved? No one knew. The Kraas suggested that perhaps they had not been too far off the mark when they made up the accusation of Honjo culpability in the conspiracy to kill them. The makeup of raiders was equally as puzzling. What were the Bhor doing so far from home? Malperin believed they were just mercenaries. Adding weight to her argument was that the human on-screen during the Bhor's terrorcast had been identified: Sten. Kyes's target earlier, who had been identified as that smaller man in civilian clothes at the conspirators' kriegsspiel. Ex-Mantis, and a longtime associate and probable friend of the man they had once believed dead: Fleet Marshal Ian Mahoney, the man who had plotted their assassination on Earth. As soon as Sten and Mahoney had been connected, most of the council members were sure that Mahoney was the man behind all their troubles.

They were careful in not stating their exact reasons—such as the very good possibility that Mahoney suspected them of slaying the Eternal Emperor. So they took a care when maligning him, especially in front of the newest member of their body, Colonel Poyndex.

If Poyndex wondered at the extreme paranoia of his new colleagues, he kept it to himself. He had joined them prepared to expand his influence to the fullest. With that in mind, he made no attempt to soothe their anger.

The privy council wanted heads—and they wanted them now.

Poyndex offered up all his skills in helping them to widen the continuing purge. A new and vastly greater list of suspects was devised. Hunters were sent to track them down and bring them to swift justice. Poyndex was careful that his signature rarely appeared on any of those orders, and when it did, it was always following everyone else's.

The purge was not setting well with the council's dwindling allies. Many of the victims had friends or relations in those crucial areas. Poyndex knew that could not be helped. He reasoned that the council would be satisfied long before they drowned in the very blood they were spilling—and he was doing his best to pad the list of suspects with beings of little importance to anyone.

In only one area did he subtly rein them in. When they started looking for new targets from which to steal AM2, he drew the line.

"I think we should delay on this matter awhile," he said.

"Give us one reason why," Lovett snapped.

"After the incident with the Honjo," Poyndex said, "even a fool would suspect that your real reason for the attack was the AM2. And that they were innocent of any conspiracy."

"I see your point," Malperin said.

"Bloody hell!" one of the Kraa twins exploded. "Wot's an Hohjo or twelve to any fella? Bunch a shut-fists, that's wot they be. 'N everyone clottin' knows it! They'll get little sympathy."

"Possibly," Poyndex said. "But if we immediately attack another AM2-rich system—no matter what the excuse—then all our allies will feel as if they were potential targets, as well."

"Too right," the fat Kraa said. "Me 'n Sis got some good candidates."

"I'm sure you do," Poyndex said. "And I think all these things should be taken into consideration. But not now. Not just yet. Or else we'll lose too many of our supporters."

They saw the wisdom in his advice. But just to make sure, Poyndex suggested some particularly bloody actions that could be taken as part of the purge. It helped a great deal to keep them all relatively calm. He also helped them launch a massive effort to bring the beings responsible for the AM2 theft to justice. Poyndex had sniffed the rotten fish the council was attempting to hide: Ian Mahoney, former chief of the same intelligence department Poyndex commanded. How very interesting. Was Mahoney just a rogue? Possibly. Possibly not. Why were his colleagues so afraid of the man?

Poyndex was sure that one way or another, he would soon learn the reasons behind all of it, and that the answer would be useful to him. Meanwhile, as the junior member of the privy council, he would do his best to satisfy.

Besides Poyndex, there was one other relatively pleased member of the council.

Kyes had found it difficult to hide his boredom. He cared not a whit what the outcome was of all this. He did his best to appear interested and to add his opinion to the debate when warranted. But on this particular day of fury, Kyes had received extremely good news.

The data banks of his one-of-a-kind computer were now full to the brim, thanks to the assistance of Lagguth, Poyndex, and a whole host of historical ferrets. The computer had been crunching all the data for weeks, and at last it possessed all of the facts, rumors, and half rumors they could find on the Eternal Emperor.

Kyes had almost dreaded asking the question. It was all very well for him to believe as he did, but believing did not make a thing so. As a scientist/inventor, Kyes knew that better than anyone. Was he mad to think the Eternal Emperor was not dead? Despite all the evidence? The witnesses? The filmed assassination itself?

Only the computer could answer that. It had been fed every detail of previous reported attempts on the Emperor. But what if he asked and the prog was unacceptably low? Kyes was certain that if he were not already mad, such an answer would drive him over that final brink. But if he did not ask, he would never know. Kyes was literally in the position of a being who has been told that whether he would live or die was a known quantity. All he had to do was look in the crystal ball to find out. It was just as hard to look as it was to ignore it.

Finally, he looked.

The prog was ninety percent plus that the Eternal Emperor was alive.

With that news, Kyes was ready to move.

Far away from that debate, there was another extremely happy being.

Sr. Ecu had labored hard since his meeting with Mahoney. As his assistants pored over legal tracts, ancient and modern, he had put out careful feelers on Sten's proposal that an impartial tribunal be formed to try the privy council for the assassination of the Eternal Emperor.

Of course, such a question had not been asked outright. But, working from a narrow list of systems that were guaranteed not to leak even a hint of his disloyalty, much less run shouting panic-stricken from his presence, he had felt his way around the edges of his goal.

He knew now that if such a tribunal were proposed, there were beings he could convince to join the panel. It would be very difficult, but far from impossible. Before he could ask, however, the Manabi needed a legal basis for such a body. Else, the whole exercise was pointless.

Sr. Ecu found his precedent.

As he suspected it might, the answer came from the early days of the Empire. It was during the time—well over two thousand years before—that most of what was now the Empire did not exist. In fact, places that were currently heavily populated and considered the very heart of the Empire had then been wild frontier regions, where there was little law and equally little order. It was a time when six years or more could pass before an Imperial circuit judge visited any of those regions to settle local disputes.

The Eternal Emperor had been well aware that many things could go very wrong if left to fester. So, he encouraged the creation of local magisterial panels, empowered to settle nearly all civil claims. Their decisions could be appealed to the region's Imperial governor, but the length of time to get a hearing, much less a presence, was so formidable that few took advantage of that option.

In the matter of major, life-threatening felonies, the Emperor had been far more cautious. Sr. Ecu could read his concerns between the lines. Jailings and executions could easily become a tool of vengeance. It was unlikely that the Eternal Emperor was concerned as much about the morality of such actions as he was that unsettled crimes would create further instability, blood feuds, and spreading wars.

So in those cases, the magisterial panels were slightly limited in their authority. If a suspected violent felon were hailed before them, the panels were only to determine if there was a great likelihood that a crime had actually taken place, what manner of crime it might have been, and whether the being(s) before them was probably responsible. To determine the evidence, they were empowered to subpoena witnesses—bringing them to the bench by force, if necessary—to arrest all suspects, and to hold in contempt of court any being who opposed them.

If the evidence pointed to the suspect before the bench, they could indict him for the crime. If he were considered extremely dangerous, they could back up the indictment by imprisoning him until an Imperial judge arrived to try the case.

The system worked so well that the Emperor had kept it alive for many hundreds of years. So Sr. Ecu had not one case to back his claims, but millions upon millions of them.

He had found the means of justice. Now, all he needed were the judges.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

T
he big cop was in a surly mood as she paced the dock. The gnarly
Santana
sat silent at its berth. The ports remained firmly closed despite repeated efforts to get someone—
anyone—
to respond.

Lieutenant Skinner muttered obscenities under her breath, casting dark looks at the idle workers who were grinning at her difficulties. Her scab crew remained silent. If the crowd's humor turned to violence they were too far from their home ward to expect any assistance. There would be no reprisals. The SDT Union was too strong and its pockets too deep, even in this time of awful unemployment.

Skinner could not figure out what had gone wrong. Her ward captain had said this was a plum job. A little favor for Tyrenne Yelad that'd go into Skinner's merit book.

All she had to do was retrieve the
Santana's
cargo. A few personal and
private
things for the Tyrenne. It was a job to be handled with Skinner's usual discretion.

Skinner's use of scabs was hardly unusual, or even provoking. In such cases one approached the appropriate union steward who would estimate the number of beings required for the job. The mordida would be set at double their prospective wages—then scabs would be allowed to unload the cargo, while the steward spread the money around to those who normally would have toted those bales. Keeping a nice taste for himself, of course. That was only right. Skinner had picked up more than a few earners of that type herself as a Dusable officer of the law.

Okay, so what had gone clottin' wrong? They had trundled up to the freighter, but no one had come out. Impatient, Skinner had gotten on the horn to see what was the hang up. No response. She tried again. Still no answer. What kind of game was this? She had sufficient mordida in her pocket to pay off anyone, from the captain of the
Santana
down, if necessary.

The steward exited his office. From his look deep drakh was about. "Get your butt outta here," he snarled.

"What the clot for? We got a deal.
Remember
?"

"The deal's off. Only reason I'm tellin' you, 'stead of sendin' a couple of guys to thump you first, is we done business afore. So I owe you a warnin'. Now, get!"

Skinner blew herself out to her most coplike proportions—which were considerable. But before she could deliver her full wrath at this scrote, she heard cheering. She whirled to confront the new threat—and gaped.

It was Solon Kenna! Advancing with a phalanx of aides, a big crowd of SDT workers, and a livie news crew. Ohmigod. Skinner knew it was time to make herself scarce. She should have known. This was an election year. In fact, the election was only two weeks away, which made things even stickier. Especially since Tyrenne Yelad's challenger was Kenna himself. Clot the ward captain! She was gettin' out.

Solon Kenna took position in front of the ship. He was an immense, elderly man who bore his girth like the seasoned pol he was. His nose was bulbous from many hours and many bottles, but his eyes and instincts were sharp. And he had a smile that would swallow a swamp beast. He turned the full force of that smile on his pet newscaster.

"I will speak no further on the perfidy of my opponent," Solon Kenna said. "Instead, I will let the facts speak for themselves. They will soon reveal themselves when I assure the poor mistreated and honest laborers inside that they are among friends—and they exit with the awful evidence of Tyrenne Kenna's greed."