by Chris Bunch
They sent Lovett.
That meant there was no foreplay.
Lovett deliberately chose a small, shabby park for the meeting. There was little room for the graceful Manabi to maneuver, and he had barely cleared the fence when dirt and dust particles began clogging his delicate sensing whiskers. Lovett waited just long enough for Sr. Ecu to get really uncomfortable. The healthy black sheen of the Manabi's body turned to gray. The lovely red tinge shaded to a sickly orange. Then he let him have it.
"We want a statement from you,” he said. “I've got a copy of what we have in mind with me. Okay it now. You can read it later. At your leisure."
"How very thoughtful of you,” Sr. Ecu said. “But first, perhaps I should know what exactly we're to agree to say. The topic ... would be especially enlightening."
"It's about the assassination business,” Lovett snapped. “You know ... you say you deplore it—etcetera, etcetera."
"We certainly do deplore it,” Sr. Ecu agreed. “It's the etcetera I'm worried about."
"Oh ... no big thing. It lists those responsible. Calls for their punishment. That sort of thing. Oh ... and yeah. The Honjo. We figure any right-thinking being will back us on liberating all that AM2. Can't let wild types like that have all that fuel. Do what they please. When they please.
"I mean ... it's legal as drakh. Our actions, that is. We license the AM2. Therefore we have the right to see that it's used properly."
"I see,” the Manabi said. And he certainly meant it.
"So that spells it out. Got a problem with any of it?” Lovett spoke as belligerently as possible. He wanted there to be no mistake about what would happen if Sr. Ecu did object. So he continued just a touch longer. “See, if you do, we've all got problems. My friends on the council have to be sure whose side everyone is on. Times are tough. Tough actions are required. You're either with us—or the Honjo. Okay?"
Sr. Ecu did not think it was okay. However, there was no way he was fool enough to say so. Instead, he explained that he had rushed to the meeting so quickly that he had failed to get any kind of blanket approval from his own government. This was a terrible oversight on his part, he apologized. But it was a necessary formality. Otherwise, he could not legally speak for all the Manabi. And was this not what Lovett wanted?
"No. I want it settled. I want no loopholes some sneaky legal types can slip through later. Okay. Get whatever approval you need. Make it good. Make it soon. Do I make myself clear?"
Sr. Ecu said that Lovett spoke with impeccable clarity.
* * * *
The privy council's ultimatum put Mahoney in what Kilgour called the catbird's seat. Ian only vaguely understood what a catbird might be, but he hadn't the foggiest what kind of a seat the being might prefer. Something lofty, he assumed. Mahoney knew he had assumed correctly when he was spared the long dance Sten had suffered through in the initial negotiations with the Manabi.
Sr. Ecu got directly to the point. Without preamble, he described the spot between the rock and the hard surface in which Lovett had placed him. Both options were intolerable.
Ian didn't say “We told you so.” Nor did he waste Sr. Ecu's time by making appropriate soothing noises. Instead, he was as direct as the Manabi. He sketched out Sten's main plan.
What the young admiral had in mind, he said, was a murder trial. The trial would be conducted by an independent tribunal, composed of the most prestigious beings in the Empire. The previous loyalty of each representative had to be beyond question. To ensure that the proceedings were impeccable, Sten proposed that Sr. Ecu act as a neutral referee. He alone would be granted the authority to see that all evidence and testimony were handled with complete fairness.
During the tribunal's proceedings, Sten and Mahoney would do their absolute best to guarantee the security and safety of each member.
"How possible can that be?” Sr. Ecu asked.
"It isn't—totally. That's why I said we'd do our best. No more."
"Quite understandable,” Sr. Ecu said. “And fair."
Mahoney was not surprised at the answer. It was a far better pledge than any offered by the privy council. He went on to say that he and Sten would make sure that every moment of the trial would be broadcast as widely as possible. It was Sten's intent that every being—no matter how distant or lowly—would have the opportunity to learn the impartial details of the proceedings. He did not have to point out that the privy council would also do everything possible to prevent such publicity.
"Will you invite them to defend themselves?” Sr. Ecu asked.
"Of course."
"They will refuse."
"So?"
Sr. Ecu mused a moment. “So, indeed."
It was not necessary to explain that if the tribunal came in with a guilty verdict, it did not mean that the members of the privy council would meekly turn themselves in to their jailers. It was moral weight Sten was after, enough to tip the balance. Handled correctly, the decision would punch so many holes in the privy council's power bucket that all their allies would leak away. What else did they have to offer, besides AM2? And that they had found impossible to deliver.
"Who will choose the members?” Sr. Ecu asked next.
Mahoney said that only a Manabi could be trusted enough to do such a thing. The same went for the mechanics of meeting with potential appointees. Sr. Ecu would have to launch a supersecret effort, shuttling from one system to another, all the while making sure that no tracks of any kind were left behind. He was to have complete freedom in this, not only for reasons of trust and secrecy, but for practical ones, as well. Without the Eternal Emperor, who else had those kinds of skills?
Sr. Ecu had some thoughts of his own about the Emperor, but he did not share them with Mahoney. He would have been surprised that Ian's thoughts ran along similar lines. And Mahoney would have been equally surprised that the being's thinking added a great deal of weight to his decision.
As the Manabi was drifting toward agreement, Mahoney flash thought about the second part of Sten's plan. He had revealed not one detail of the reasons for Sten's absence. It was not lack of trust that kept him silent, but the old inviolate Mercury Corps rule of “Need to Know.” Besides, if he had told about the mission, he was not sure which way Sr. Ecu would decide. If Sten failed this time, all bets were off. The independent tribunal would be an empty exercise.
"One final question,” Sr. Ecu said. “What is the legal basis for this tribunal? What's the point, if we do not have the force of law?"
"There'd be none,” Mahoney said. “Sten thought you'd ask that, however. And he said to tell you he hadn't a clot of an idea. We don't exactly have regiments of Imperial legal scholars at our command."
"No, you don't,” Sr. Ecu said. “My problem is that I can't imagine a circumstance where the Emperor would have ever allowed such a thing. He wouldn't have permitted anybody that kind of power. Not over him. And the problem we have now is that the council is acting in his name. With the same precedents and force of law."
"Oh, I don't know about that,” Mahoney said. “As old as this empire is, something like this must have occurred at least once."
"I think you are right,” Sr. Ecu said. “And once is all we need ... Very well. I'll do it."
Fleet Marshal Ian Mahoney was very relieved. He and the Manabi hammered out a few more details, and then it was time to go. Sr. Ecu had one parting comment that Mahoney puzzled over for some time.
"Oh ... yes ... I have a message for our young admiral,” Sr. Ecu said.
"Yes?"
"Tell him whatever the mission he's on now—if it should fail..."
"Yes?” There was a bit more tension in Mahoney's voice.
"Tell him I still expect to meet with him again. No matter the outcome. And I only hope it's someplace where all beings can fly."
"He'll understand this?” Mahoney asked.
"Oh, yes ... he'll understand."
[Back to Table of Contents]
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Above the ramshackle building a sign blinked in several colors, all of which hurt the eye: last blast tearoom and diner. Below that: prop.: dingiswayo PATTIPONG.
A knot of three very primed sailors lurched out of the barroom next door and down the cracked plas sidewalk. Raschid smiled politely and stepped out of their way. One of the sailors looked regretful but passed on.
Again, Raschid smiled, his smile broadening as he heard the Yukawa-whine of a ship lifting off from the field just beyond a blastfence. The produce-sled driver had been correct—the spaceport was full of ships that had not lifted for some time and would likely never lift again. But there was traffic.
Raschid entered the diner.
The man who greeted him was very small and very dark. There were about ten tables and a counter in the diner. The small man was the only other person inside.
"Sr. Pattipong?"
"You police?"
"No. I want a job."
"You cook?"
"Yes."
"No. Not cook. Maybe cook where people not use knife if order wrong. Too pretty be cook down here."
Raschid did not answer.
"Where you cook last?"
Raschid muttered something inaudible.
Pattipong nodded once. “Maybe you cook. Cook never say where last. Too many wives ... alks ... children ... police. Come. We see."
Pattipong led Raschid through the door into the kitchen, watching his expression closely. Pattipong nodded when that gawp of surprise came.
"Yes. Not good. I build station for gooood cook. Cnidarians. Stay two, almost three years. Then ... go. Leave me with bathtub for cook station."
The cnidarians were intelligent aquatic corallike polyps that grew together as they matured ... into mutual hatred. They ... it must have been very, very good. Because Pattipong had specially built the kitchen. It was a now-drained tub, with all the necessary appliances and counters built circularly around it.
"Not good. Take gooood cook know how to use."
Raschid climbed into the pool.
"Couple eyes. Over easy,” Pattipong ordered.
Raschid turned the heat on and put a pan on the fire. He brushed clarified butter from a nearby bowl on it, picked up—one-handed—two eggs from another bowl, and in a single motion cracked them both into the pan and disposed of the shells. Pattipong nodded involuntarily. Raschid chopped the heat down and waited as the eggs sizzled in the pan. Pattipong was watching his wrist closely. At just the right moment, Raschid flipped the eggs. They slid smoothly onto their blind sides.
Pattipong smiled. “You cook. No one else do that right."
"You want anything with your eggs?"
"No. Not want eggs. Hate eggs. Eggs make me...” Pattipong waved his hand across his buttocks. “Bad wind ... Every-body else like eggs. I serve eggs. You have job. You cook now."
Raschid looked around the rather filthy kitchen. “Cook later. Lunch is an hour away. Clean now.” Pattipong's speech patterns seemed habit-forming.
Pattipong considered, then bobbed his head. “Clean now. Cook later. I help.” And so began the Legend of the Eggs of Pattipong.
* * * *
Pattipong described them on the menu as Imperial Eggs Benedict. For some reason, the name bothered Raschid. He argued—mildly. Pattipong told him to get back to the kitchen. “Imperial good name. Thailand ... best elephants Royal Elephants. Or so I hear."
It started from boredom. The lunch crowd had been nearly nonexistent, and it was hours until dinner. Raschid wasn't sleepy enough to walk back to the tiny room he rented for a nap, didn't feel like drinking, and had no desire for a walk. It started with baking. Raschid felt about baking, mostly at least, the same way Pattipong did about eggs. It was too damned unpredictable, and he never understood exactly what ingredients should be changed to match the temperature, the humidity, the barometer, or whatever made his loaves look suddenly unleavened. But there were exceptions and this was one of them.
He had made sourdough starter a week or so before-warm water, equal amount of flour, a bit of sugar, and yeast. Cover in a nonmetallic dish and leave until it stinks.
He used that as a base for what were still called English muffins. They were equally easy to make. For about eight muffins, he brought a cup of milk to a boil, then took it off the stove and dumped in a little salt, a teaspoon of sugar, and two cupfuls of premixed biscuit flour. After he beat it all up, he let it rise until double size; then he beat in another cup of flour and let the dough rise once more.
The open-ended cylinders were half filled with the dough. Raschid did not mention that the short cylinders had been pet food containers with both ends cut off. Even in this district, somebody might get squeamish.
He brushed butter on his medium-hot grill and put the cylinders down. Once the open end had browned for a few seconds, he flipped the cylinder, browned the other side, and lifted the cylinder away, burning fingers in the process.
He added more butter and let the muffins get nearly black before putting them on a rack to cool. For use—within no more than four hours—he would split them with a fork and toast them.
He next found the best smoked ham he—or rather Pattipong—could afford. It was thin-sliced and browned in a wine-butter-cumin mixture.
"Best, it should be Earth ham. From Virginia. Or Kerry."
Pattipong goggled. “I didn't know you had ever been to Earth!” Raschid looked perplexed. “I—haven't. I think."
Then it was Raschid's turn to goggle. “Dingiswayo—the way you just talked."
"Normally, you mean? I slipped. Normal too much trouble. Talk too much trouble. Like eggs. Just hot air. Besides ... talk short, people think you not understand. They more careful in asking what they want. Not careful in saying what they think you not understand.
"And around here,” Pattipong said, lapsing into a full speech pattern, “you need all the edge you can get."
That was true. The spaceport's traffic may have been light, but there were still stevedores, sailors, whores, and everyday villains looking for amusement—which was often defined as laying odds on how long it would take someone to bleed to death in a gutter. Pattipong kept a long, unsheathed knife hidden under the pay counter.
Raschid went back to his recipe. The browned ham was put in a warming oven. He had lemon juice, red pepper, a touch of salt, and three egg yolks waiting in a blender. He melted butter in a small pan. Then his mental timer went on. Muffins toasted ... eggs went into boiling water to poach ... the muffins were ready ... ham went on top of the muffins ... two and a half minutes exactly, and the eggs were plopped on top of the ham.
He flipped the blender on and poured molten butter into the mixture. After the count of twenty, he turned the blender off and poured the hollandaise sauce over the eggs.
"Voila, Sr. Pattipong."
Pattipong gingerly sampled.
"Not bad,” he said grudgingly. “But eggs."
Raschid tried them on a customer, a sailor drunk enough to be experimental. The man sampled, looked surprised, and inhaled the plate, then ordered a second plate. He swore it sobered him up—now he was ready to start all over again.
"Like sobriety pill? Maybe great invention. Cure diseases. Sell through mail."
"Clot off,” Raschid snorted.
The sailor came back the next day—with six friends.
The port police started dropping by around lunchtime. For some reason, Raschid felt uncomfortable—with no idea why. They ate, of course, on the cuff. Lunch was no longer slow.
Raschid came up with other dishes: something he called chili, and something he called “nuked hen.” He convinced Pattipong that the customers wanted something more than the bland, airport/diner standard dishes Pattipong had previously featured on the menu.
"You talk. I listen. I do. Make c
urry. Curry like mother made. Customers try—I laugh. Get revenge for all yata-yata-yata talk all time."'
Pattipong's curry may not have been quite that lethal—but it was nominated. “Know why I listen to you?” Pattipong asked.
He waved an arm out of the serving window. Raschid looked out at the dining area. It was packed. Pattipong had even put tables and chairs out on the sidewalk. Raschid knew that they had been getting busier, but he really hadn't realized just how much. The crowd was different. There were still the bruisers and brawlers, but Raschid saw suits and some uniformed port authorities, as well. There were even two orange-robed members of the Cult of the Eternal Emperor. For some reason, they made him just as uncomfortable as the policemen did—also for equally unknown reasons.
"Last Blast now hot place to go. Walk wild side ... eat good. It last for while. Then they find new place. Happen before. Happen again. Hard thing to remember. Not expand. Not drive old customers away.
"These people like ... like insect that buzz ... buzz ... flower to flower. Then vanish."
"Butterflies?"
"Butter not fly, Raschid. Work. No more jokes."
Raschid went back to his stove. Another damned order for Imperial Damned Eggs. He was starting to share Pattipong's hatred for eggs.
Raschid was glad Pattipong was making money. But it meant nothing to him. He felt ... as if he were waiting. For someone? For something? He did not know.
* * * *
Others noticed prosperity, as well.
It was very late. The Last Blast opened early and closed late—but this was getting absurd. Around midnight they had a gaggle of guests, all caped in formal wear. The “thea-tah” crowd, don't you know.
Raschid was exhausted. As soon as he finished stoning and oiling the grill he was for his room, the fresher, one drink, and unconsciousness. They had a new hire—a baker, one of Pattipong's innumerable relatives—coming in. Raschid was supposed to train him—a clear case of a double amputee teaching ballet.
