by Chris Bunch
But Kyes was an old master of self-control. He recognized the glooming for what it was and continued apace. As his colleagues scrambled frantically about with their bloodletting at home and in the Honjo worlds, he put all of his marks into secret play.
How there was only one mark left, one key being to suborn. Potentially, the most difficult and dangerous of all: Colonel Poyndex, the chief of Mercury Corps. But when he finally determined what the cost would be, Kyes did not hesitate for a moment.
The colonel was as chilling in person as he had been on the screen when the assassination plot had been announced. Poyndex listened intently to every word Kyes had to say. He never blinked or smiled or even shifted in his seat once he had settled.
Kyes carefully skated around his own beliefs and merely restated the logic. The Emperor had reportedly disappeared—he didn't say “died"—before. And he had always returned. Also, the supply of AM2 always followed the same course: diminished during the alleged absence, plentiful when he came back. That part could be charted—and had been by Lagguth's staff and Kyes's computer. The great historical shifts in the AM2 supply appeared to match the times when rumor and myth held that the Emperor was gone.
Finally, Kyes was done. He eased back in his seat, keeping his own expression as blank as the spy master's.
"I wondered why you met with that Zoran woman,” Poyndex said. “Now it makes sense. It didn't when my operatives first reported it."
Kyes clawed back his instinct to gape, to be shocked that Poyndex apparently routinely shadowed any member of the ruling council. He had been advised that such comments were one of the colonel's favorite ploys—to win the upper hand with a seemingly casual verbal blow.
"I thought you might be puzzled,” Kyes shot back. “That's why I thought we should talk."
He was hinting that the shadowers had shadows of their own, operating at his behest. It was a lie, but a good one. Poyndex allowed an appreciative nod.
"Regretfully...” Poyndex deliberately let this trail. “I don't see how I can help. My department's resources...” Again, a deliberate trailing off to indicate lack of same. “Also, I fear I would be exceeding my authority."
It was not necessary for Poyndex to detail his agency's awesome responsibilities and the additional burdens it now bore as a result of such things as the disaster in predicting the Honjo as a relatively soft target.
Lovett would have bottom-lined Poyndex's statement immediately. The deal—if there was to be one—would begin with increased resources and more authority. Kyes was no slower. He had come prepared to make one offer and one alone. He believed the price was set so high, that no one—especially a spy master—could resist.
"My colleagues and I have been considering a matter for some time,” Kyes said. “All of us are concerned that certain views—important views—never come to our attention. In short, we feel a lack of depth on the privy council."
Poyndex raised an eyebrow. The first show of emotion! Especially since the spy master had no idea where Kyes was going. He saw the eyebrow forced into place—a bit irritably, like a cat angrily coaxing back an unruly tuft of fur. Kyes was pleased. Poyndex could be handled. No trouble at all.
"What would you say,” Kyes said, “if I proposed that you join us? As the sixth member of the privy council?"
Kyes was absolutely delighted when the spy master gaped like a freshly landed fish!
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CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SR. ECU HOVERED at the edge of the lake. The sun was warm, and the rising moist air from the Bhor memorial allowed him to float without effort: a tic of a winglet for steadiness; a flick of the tip of the three-meter tail to keep his eyes on the small being walking toward him across the grass.
In most other circumstances, the Manabi would be enjoying this moment. The warm air and sun were pleasurable, the setting perfect. He appreciated—as only the Manabi could—the contrast of his dark body, with its red-tipped wings and pure white sensing whiskers, against the mirroring lake with its small, rocky beach, and the deep blue-green of the healthy lawn.
He had reluctantly agreed to the meeting. To him, further involvement with any of the surviving conspirators was not only pointless—witness Fleet Marshal Mahoney's dismal failure—but extremely dangerous. Ignoring the invitation, however, might create equal, or greater, peril.
One stray word from the conspirators—deliberate, or otherwise—would implicate the Manabi no matter how tentative their previous role. It took no imagination to know what form the privy council's reaction would take. Imagination was one thing the Manabi were more than blessed—or cursed—with.
Sten did his best to appear casual as he approached. He wanted no hint of self-doubt, although he had a clot of a lot of it. He had already invested a week of preliminary discussions with Sr. Ecu. Diplomacy was a maddening art. Still, he threw everything he had been taught and learned into the effort. There were the circlings to begin with, as each being measured, tested, and got to know the other. Then there was a host of initial discussions—never once hitting, or even coming near, the point.
It did not help his confidence to know he was dealing with the most skilled diplomat from a race of ethereal beings who were individual experts before they had left their childhood behind along with their milk sting.
He had consulted heavily with Kilgour and Mahoney well before Sr. Ecu's arrival. Even now, his two friends were ablaze with the effort of launching the main body of his plan. Weapons, ammunition, fuel, and supplies were being gathered. The Bhor were already rehearsing, and Otho's patience was wearing thin. When Sten had said “load the ships,” he was being symbolic. By the time he explained that to the literal-minded Bhor chieftain, Otho was ready to blast off with a ragged crew aboard an iffy warship. Suicide was not painless, Sten kept telling Otho. Eventually, he made his point.
Sten was vastly relieved when he and Kilgour had finally reached Mahoney. After seventy-five years as chief of Mercury Corps, Ian had found little difficulty in staying many steps ahead of his pursuers.
Mahoney had just kept moving. He would go to ground for a few days in a well-chosen hidey-hole, then pop up to see what was going on about him, moving on again before suspicions were aroused. By the time Sten and Alex had contacted him through Jon Wild, their old smuggler friend, he had already hidden in a dozen wildly disparate spots, using an equal number of identities. The faster and more often one moved, Ian always said, the less perfection was required when it came to forged paperwork. The role was the thing, he said. The whole thing. That, and being able to think on one's feet and shed the role like old, itchy skin.
Sten's former commander had instantly seen the value in his plan, and they had put it into motion. The key was the Manabi and their spotless reputations for honesty. Without their agreement, the plan had far less of a chance. However, considering his recent, explosive failure, Mahoney urged Sten to take point in the discussions. He would come in later, if needed. Sten agreed. But he was far from sure. One thing was certain, however: whatever the outcome, Sten was determined to proceed. Still, he wanted Sr. Ecu. He wanted him bad.
Today was the day. It was all or nothing. His goal was simple and did not require total victory. He only had to drive in a big enough wedge to get a glimpse of sunlight.
Sten could only see one way to go about his task. He had to hard-ass the Manabi. But first, as his father used to say, he had to get Sr. Ecu's attention. In this case, however, his father's suggested club would not do.
He waved a greeting when he was a few meters away, then knelt on the grass. He placed a small black cube on the ground, gently pinched the sides, and stepped back. The cube began to unfold. As it did so, Sten sensed a slight flutter in the air and Sr. Ecu floated closer. He could also sense the being's curiosity. Sten did not turn. Instead, he kept his rapt attention on the unfolding cube. It was show time, folks.
The cube became a base for a little holographic display: a moving, almost-living art form that Sten had
whiled away the time with most of his life. The one he had picked as a gift for the Manabi diplomat was not all that elaborate. Sten had built replicas of entire ancient mills and factories and towns, all with active workers and residents going about their programmed daily lives. This hologram was an off-the-shelf kit that took him no more than six hours to complete. Of course, by now he was highly skilled at his hobby.
But it was not the difficulty of a display that necessarily attracted him. Sometimes it was just nice to look at, or it was oddly moving, or it had something to say. The gift for Sr. Ecu had a little of all of these.
The cube was gone, and in its place was a meadow converted into some sort of arena surrounded by makeshift wooden bleachers, which were filled with a cheering crowd of humans. Their costumes were early twentieth-century Earth, and if one listened extra closely, so were their comments. Hawkers moved in and out of the crowd, selling all kinds of odd foods and trinkets. Gangs of tiny wild boys ran about, getting into minor mischief. After all that sank in, the observer started looking at the strange little object in the center.
Suddenly the object shuddered and belched a mini-burst of smoke. Followed by a sharp kaaaklacka. Sten could feel the Manabi move in even closer. Sensing whiskers brushed his shoulders as Sr. Ecu jockeyed for a better view. At the sound, the gangs of wild boys abandoned mischief and ran for the fence that enclosed the field.
Another kaaaklacka, and it became a bit more obvious. What they were both looking at was an ancient flying machine. Twin wings joined by struts. Stubby. A strong little propeller in front. A tiny pilot was in the cockpit. An equally small coveralled ground-crew member was turning the prop. He leapt away as the explosive sound came again. Except this time the prop kept turning, stuttering at first, with small pops of engine smoke-warranted by the model manufacturer to smell like castor oil. Then the engine sounds smoothed out, the crewman was kicking away the blocks at the wheels, and the little plane was moving down the field.
A sudden roar, and it surged forward. There was no way it had enough runway to clear the stadium. Sten could feel the tension in the winged being by his side. The pilot hauled his stick back, and the plane abruptly rose into the air. The crowd gasped. Sten thought he could hear something similar beside him.
Stick around, Sr. Ecu, he thought. You ain't seen nothin’ yet.
The biplane pilot opened his act with a daredevil series of turns and flips and barrel rolls.
"That's not possible for such a machine,” Sten heard Sr. Ecu whisper. He said nothing in return.
Then the plane went into a long dive—straight for the ground. The crowd shrieked in terror. Sr. Ecu, who knew all about gravity, could not help but flip a winglet in reaction. It jolted his body upward a few centimeters. Still the biplane came on and on. At the last instant, when Sr. Ecu could no longer stand the suspense, the pilot pulled away—almost brushing the ground and holographic disaster. The crowd shouted in relief, then rose for loud applause.
"Remarkable,” Sten's companion muttered.
The pilot saluted his admirers with another long series of rolls and dives and turns. Then he steadied out, and the engine sound shifted. The plane arced gracefully through the sky. White smoke streamed out behind. Gradually, that trail of smoke made the pattern clear.
Skywriting!
"What's he saying?"
Sr. Ecu had become Sten's emotional captive—at least through the end of the show. Again, Sten said nothing.
Finally, the pilot was done. The smoke lettering hung over the field like a high-flying banner. And this is what it said:
* * * *
Anyone Can Fly
At...
THE AIR CIRCUS
* * * *
Sten stepped quickly forward and pinched the sides of the display; it became a small black cube again. He picked it up and offered it to Sr. Ecu. “What do you think?"
"Did they really do that?” Sr. Ecu asked. He did not wait for the answer. It was obvious. “You know, I've never really appreciated before what it was like to be permanently grounded by an accident of genes. My God, how desperately they wanted to fly."
"Beings will risk a great deal,” Sten said, “for a little freedom."
There was a long silence from the Manabi. A flip of a wing took Sr. Ecu into a long, slow glide over the lake. Sten knew he was pondering the names on the slate bottom, the names of the permanently grounded Bhor. Another flip, and he came gliding back.
"Where did you get it?” the Manabi asked.
"I made it,” Sten said. “Just a kit, really. But it was fun."
"When?"
"Last night."
"Then you really did make it for me.” It was a statement of realization, not a question.
"Yes."
The Manabi remained quiet still.
"Ah...” he said at last. “Now we begin ... A very good opening, Admiral."
"Thanks. And you're right. Now, we begin. But first, I have a little preamble. I had it all worked out in the best diplomatic form I could imagine, and then I thought, to hell with it! I should just speak my mind. Say how it is."
"Go on."
"There's a lot of doublethink between us. After a week I'm still trying to figure out how to put my case to you. And you're still trying to figure the best way to say no and be done with me. In other words, we're both grounded. Neither of us can get any forward motion, much less clear the stadium."
"Fairly accurate."
"The thing is,” Sten said, “you're more earthbound than I."
The Manabi stirred, surprised.
Sten filled in a few more blanks. “You see, from my point of view, you're still stuck with a previous action. One you now think was not that wise. Trouble being, you can't take it back. Not completely. You have to wonder if we have blackmail in mind. Are we going to hold the club of betrayal over you to force your continued support?"
"Well? Are you?"
Sten let Sr. Ecu's anxious question hang for a while. “No. We're not,” he said finally, firmly—a promise. “You can speak for everyone?"
"Yes."
"Why are you being so ... magnanimous? Or is it temporary?"
"If we fail, everyone is in the same drakh. That includes the supporters of the privy council. When this is over, if there are any pieces to pick up it might make me rest easier in my grave to think a few Manabi might be about to help. And, no. The decision isn't temporary. For the same reason.
"But my real reason is loyalty. You once left your neutral corner to support the Emperor. This is why you even spoke to Mahoney when he came to you. Out of that same loyalty. Actually, logic is a better word for it just now. The same logic that once brought you to the Emperor's side—meaning prog zero for any kind of future without him—allowed you to be swayed by Ian. Isn't that so?"
"Again ... yes."
"Now you've seen Mahoney's plan fail. Dismally. Meanwhile, all over the Empire beings are being rounded up for the brainscan—and then the slaughterhouse. No wonder you're shy of us. I would be, too."
"You make a better argument for my case than yours,” Sr. Ecu said. “In my sphere, this means there's a great deal more to come."
"You got it,” Sten said. “To begin with, what happened was my fault. Not Mahoney's. He was in command—but I was there, in person, and I sure as clot didn't pull out in time. I crashed that plane, not Mahoney."
"Admirable that you should shoulder the blame, but it only underscores my uncertainty—in even meeting with you. Do you have some—what is the phrase your kind favors—ace up your sleeve?"
"Maybe. Maybe not. Right now, what I do have is your attention. Let me tell you what is going to happen next. If you return to your fence sitting.
"We'll ignore it. But will the privy council? How long before their paranoia reaches out to the Manabi? Failing that, as this AM2 situation gets worse, they're going to be looking for repeated opportunities. The Honjo are only the first. There'll be others.
"How much AM2 does your cluster have in i
ts storehouses? Enough to tempt them?"
It was not necessary for Sr. Ecu to answer. They both knew the Manabi had more than enough.
"And can you stop them? Do you have the means, much less the spirit? I ‘m not talking about bravery now. I'm speaking of pure meanness. Digging in like the Honjo. Willing to die for every square centimeter of turf. Can you do that? Are you willing?"
Again, there could be no answer but one. The Manabi were diplomats, not warriors.
"What do you propose?” Sr. Ecu asked. That did not mean he was going for it, only that he was willing to listen. But now that Sten had the Manabi going for the bait, he wanted to dangle it awhile. No way would he let this big flying fish off the hook.
"I only want you to watch and wait,” Sten said. “I have something I need to accomplish. To show you we have the will and means. In return..."
"Yes.” Real abrupt. Sr. Ecu was going for it.
"In return ... I want the opportunity to speak with you again. Or Mahoney, if that's how it ends up working best. Probably I'll be busy. So Ian it will be. If you agree. Will you at least do that?"
How could Sr. Ecu reject him? He did not. Instead he asked to see his gift again. He wanted to visit the air circus—where anyone could fly.
* * * *
It worked out exactly as Sten had predicted. No sooner had Sr. Ecu returned home than he found a request for him to meet with a member of the privy council. Actually, it was no request at all. It was a summons.
The council members had discussed at length how to handle the Manabi. They as yet had no suspicion of them. But their purge, and especially the long, drawn-out invasion of Honjo sovereign territory, had produced howls all over the Empire. They badly needed to keep things glued together, at least for a while. To do that they needed the support of the Manabi. Badly.
There was some discussion of whom to send. Malperin was mostly favored, because she had the best diplomatic skills, at least as far as a businessbeing could go. But even she saw drawbacks in that. If Sr. Ecu sensed the slightest opening, they were lost, she said. They had to act from strength. What they needed was a master of the bottom line.
