by Chris Bunch
One more year, he groaned. One more trip. One more rejection. This must be the last one. Otherwise his body would be found, years later, dead on some unknown hillside when his heart gave out. This ... well, no. Perhaps next year. But that would definitely be the last.
Ahead lay the Gurkkha Center in the hamlet of Pokhara. Hosford shifted the heavy pack of credits and marched on. He knew what he would see from the next hilltop. The center, and some of his old comrades waiting. Somehow they always knew when he would be there. They would be drawn to as rigid attention as their age permitted. At their head would be ex-Havildar Major Mankajiri Gurung, who, unless he was actually his son, Imperial records said was over 250 years old. Them ... but that would be all.
Pokhara, in fact, was a confusion of noise, music, and youth. Almost, Hosford estimated, a thousand of them, drawn up in what screaming old men were telling them was a military formation, and if they shamed their clan or Captain Hosford they would be tied up in barrels and rolled into the headwaters of the Sacred Ganges to disappear into the sea.
In front of the assembly stood Mankajiri. He saluted. Hosford returned the salute. He should have waited to ask, but could not.
"These are ... recruits?” he wondered aloud.
"Such as they are. Mountain wildflowers compared to men of our wars, Captain. But recruits, if they pass your careful eye. Their medical records wait for your examination."
"Why the change?"
"Change? There has been no change."
"But you said you would never serve the privy council."
"Again, no change. These men will serve the Emperor. He is returning. He will need us."
Captain Hosford felt a cold chill down his spine—a chill that had nothing to do with the icy winds blowing down from the nearby mountain tops.
* * * *
"'Ow lang wi’ the’ squawkin't an’ squeakin't frae th’ Tribunal gae on?” Kilgour wondered.
Mahoney shrugged. “Until every lawyer has his day in the sun, and until every challenge the privy council can come up with now or later is answered."
"Ah hae no plans,” Kilgour said grimly, “frae much of a later f'r th’ clots. Thae drove me off Edinburgh. Thae'll be ae accountin’ f'r that. Wi’ me. Nae wi’ a court ae law."
"Alex. We aren't vigilantes,” Sten said.
"Ye're intendin't to force us inta th’ path ae righteousness frae somebody's namesake? Nae. Nae. I’ this all collapses, an’ Ah'm morally cert it shall, thae'll nae gie us a wee home back in Mantis. Morally corrupted, we are, we are.
"Ah'll nae adjust't’ ae world where y’ need more on ae villain than enow't’ authorize the usual.” Alex drew a thumb across his throat.
"If you're through, Laird Kilgour. We are now sworn officers of a legitimate court,” Sten said, grinning. “While the lawyers are dicin’ and slicin', we have to go out and get some concrete evidence for them to chew over when they get tired of talking about whether the Magna Carta's bridge-building ban might pertain."
"Ah'm noo through. But Ah'll shut m’ trap.” The three of them studied the screen projections.
"I've been fine-combing,” Sten started. “Trying to read—or at least read a summary of—everything that's appeared on the privy council, from its establishment to the assassination. I've got another team doing the same thing to the present, looking for possible ancillary crimes.
"But let's start with two specific crimes of blood,” he said. “First is the murder of Volmer. Why was he iced? We know a pro hit him on an open contract. The contract was let by a crime boss, now dead. The assassin is gone, too. Right?"
"So Chief Haines told me."
"Do you think she was holding out on you?"
"No.” All three men were relaxing. This was very familiar to them—the standard plotting session any Mantis Team went through before they opened a mission. The fact that it concerned regicide and high treason was another issue entirely.
"Is she worth talking to again?"
"Probably."
"So somebody's going to Prime,” Sten said. “Volmer, one of the privy council, gets killed. Why? Was he passing on the conspiracy against the Emperor? Was he trying a power grab on his own?"
"W nae hae that enow't’ guess."
"No. Input: Just before his murder, the privy council met—on Earth. It's the only time that I can find them meeting away from Prime. At least from the public fiche."
"We need to verify that."
"A visit to Prime, once more,” Sten agreed. “I'm not sure we'll find any dirt looking at Volmer's death. But it's worth checking.
"Now. The biggie. The Emperor is taken out by one crazed assassin. Chapelle. A nut-case. Is there any chance that he was a lone lunatic? And that the privy council, already conspiring toward takeover someday, seized the opportunity?"
"Negative,” Mahoney said flatly. “They moved too quickly. And they're not that bright. Except for maybe Kyes."
"Agreed. I ran through your notes, Ian. You had Chapelle's life day by day—and then he disappeared a month or so before he showed up with a gun. Error on your part? Did you have to get out of town before you found those pieces?"
"Negative again. He vanished. All I had is that he'd been seen in company—twice—with that guy who looked rich and way out of ... oh for the love of God!” Mahoney exclaimed in sudden exasperation, realizing something.
"It nae hurts,” Kilgour said, looking interested, “f rechew the evidence. Continue on, frae love ae God, Fleet Marshal."
"Rich guy. Control, of course. Which I already thought, not being a total dummy. But I never ran the MO. Crooks use the same modus operandi. So do I, so do you, so does the thug there who isn't pouring. I think it's acceptable to add alk to the equation. My mind's starting to work."
"Ah.” Sten got it, and went to pour Mahoney his requested drink.
"Exactly. Ignore the preliminary drakh for the moment, which would have been: Sullamora ran the wet work end of the conspiracy. Died in the blast. Burble, burble, who cares about whether it was an accident or not. The interesting fact is that Tanz Sullamora was too good to ever meet with somebody who's going to pull the trigger. So there had to be a cutout.
"Control. Projected profile. Please record this.” Sten snapped on a recorder.
"Intelligence professional. Established—clean, classic operation. To find or create a psychopath, steer him in the correct direction, and put him in the right place with the right weapon. Chapelle would have had no connection to the organization itself, nor to any high-level person in that conspiracy."
"Ah'll gie thae,” Alex said. Both Sten and Kilgour had their Professional Skeptic hats on. Nothing was true, everything was false—the only way to penetrate any kind of apparat.
"I knew that way back when. Control was always who I wanted. Didn't think things through enough. Problem with having spent the last few years runnin’ so'jers instead of spooks like you two clowns.
"Anyway. Professional. First I looked at the Empire. Mercury, Mantis, and ex-both. Nothing."
"Verified ... or are you being sentimental and protecting the Old Boy's Network?"
"The Emperor,” Mahoney said harshly, “was a friend of mine. Erase that from the recording. I didn't fudge on that one."
"Thae's many espionage pros out there hae naught't'do with th’ Empire, an’ ne'er hae,” Kilgour said.
"Exactly. Now. Back to the MO. Little trick of the trade. You want to run a safehouse, run a drop, have a team on standby—or anything else nefarious. You don't find a warehouse in the slum, unless you're an amateur or a criminal. Find yourself a nice, rich, bohemian, if possible, neighborhood, where nobody knows or cares who's coming or going, and pride themselves on minding their own business."
"Ah. Rich man—Control—shows up in the slum. Blows in Chapelle's ear, who always thought he was meant for greatness. Disappears him—still on Prime, of course,” Sten reasoned. “Control built him, taught him, armed him ... in a nice, safe, rich mansion in a nice, safe, rich suburb. Prime
again."
"Clot Prime,” Mahoney said. “Read my lips and listen to what I just said. MO, MO, MO. We all reuse something that works. Rich ... rich ... rich. How many pros use that as a working tool? Can't be that many, can there?"
"It's a big clottin’ universe,” Sten said. “But no. We're in a little tiny subculture here."
"I already thought of some names."
"Fine. You got it, Ian. You're in motion. Question-curiosity—how will you get him to sing? If you find him?"
Mahoney sneered.
"Sorry,” Sten said. “I'm telling my grandmother how to suck eggs. Shut the recorder off. Back to my line of reasoning, such as it is:
"If I were running the conspiracy, I'd want to have the fewest number of meetings possible. I've got one probably established now—the conference on Earth before Volmer was killed. Was there a second or third meeting? More? It seems to me that Sullamora would have informed everyone when he had his ducks—Chapelle, Control, possible opportunity, et cetera—in a row.
"The meeting would not be in an official place. Fear of bugs, of course. Now, I'm making a big jump. None of the privy council-types trust each other."
"Nae a jump. Thae'd be even greater clots than thae be if they did."
"So this meeting, if it occurred, might be on neutral but very clean turf. Question: Did the privy council have any meetings like that?"
"Some lad's headed twa Prime,” Alex said. “Suggestion. Amateur plotters clean a'ter themselves. But ne'er think ae then puttin’ in ae false trail. Meetin’ ae Earth? How wae it arranged? Nae spontaneity, a’ course. So Ah'll—pardon, whoe'er goes't’ Prime—look for paperwork. I’ there's naught, thae was a conspiracy meetin', aye?
"Same wi’ any other meetin’ a'fore th’ Emp’ gies slaughtered, pardon, sir."
"Good,” Sten agreed. “That's a way in. Anyone else have any sudden flashes? We can leave the backup team in place looking for Sins After the Bang."
"Ah'll pack,” Alex said, finishing his drink.
"You will,” Sten agreed. “But not for Prime. I'm the one."
"Y're known an’ a desir'd target, lad. Dinnae be playin’ there."
"I'm not. Everything on Prime leads through Haines—or could, anyway. Who's she most likely to cooperate with?"
"Ah'll gie y’ th’ loan ae a mattress manual, Burns’ love poems, an’ a crook champagne distributor Ah know. But where am Ah headin't twa?"
"Like I said before. We're officers of the court now. But we're understaffed. I'd feel real comfortable with more. Say ... ten thousand?"
Kilgour considered. “Hae much ae th’ AM2 we stole kin Ah use?"
"Beyond what we had to give back to the Bhor ... what we need for power here and for the Bhor cover fleets ... whatever it takes. But bargain hard."
"Grannies’ wi’ eggs once more, lad. I'll gie Otho fr transp'rtation. Ah hae an idea where I'll look."
"Don't trouble Otho. He's busy. I already lined up your ride."
"Ye're smilin’ lad. Ah dinnae like thae smile."
"Trust me, Laird Kilgour. You're gonna love it."
* * * *
Ships flickered into existence, so many hungry minnows swarming to bait around the Jura System. Then, again like minnows, they formed into two fleets and went into parking orbits. Unlike minnows they were not silver, were not uniform, and mostly were not very sleek.
The first fleet landed one ship on Newton. Sten was waiting. Jon Wild, king of the smugglers—or at least their spokesman for this moment—stepped out. Again Sten marveled at his appearance. Not a pirate, not a brawler, Wild looked more like a clerklet or an archivist.
The meeting was very brief—merely a declaration of confederacy. It had taken awhile for Sten's emissary to find Wild, but only moments for the message to be conveyed and understood.
Smugglers needed four things to succeed: Trade laws, transport, cunning, and client prosperity. The privy council had destroyed one and nearly another of those preconditions. No matter how clever a smuggler is, Wild told Sten, if he can't fuel his ship he might as well stay home and farm potatoes. And what boots it if he can find fuel, but his customer has no way of paying for the smuggler's goods?
"So what can you promise me, Sten? Beyond access to the AM2 you seem to have ... acquired?"
"Not the good old days. The AM2 flow stopped with the Emperor. But with the privy council condemned, they will eventually fall. I find it hard to conceive that anything short of complete chaos could be worse than what we have now."
"Smugglers, as a last resort, can live with chaos,” Wild mused. “Somebody must carry the cargoes. Very well. For intelligence ... scouting ... transportation ... troopships as a last resort ... you can depend on us. For a time. Until boredom sets in, or those happy anarchists of mine decide to listen to someone else."
Sten requested Alex's presence when he boarded the “flagship” of the second fleet—revenge for Kilgour having stuck him with not only a bodyguard, but an acolyte as well.
He had hoped to surprise Alex.
It did not work very well. Kilgour looked at the projection of the motley throng their ship was closing on and called up the Jane's fiche. After glancing at a few entries, he glowered at Sten.
"Y1 bastard.” Alex knew.
"Y'd stick me ... y'r mate. Y'r wee lifesaver. Th’ charmin’ an’ sophisticated lad whae taught y's all y’ ken noo. Y're bent, lad. Y'r proper surname's Campbell!"
"Probably. But do you know a better pilot? Or a group of people better able to keep your potential—and I quote, officers of the court, end quote—under control?"
"M'tongue'd blacken i’ Ah agreed wi’ y'. An’ dinnae be restatin’ th’ obvious when tha’ wee airlock opens."
Ida was waiting for them. If anything, she had gotten even fatter. She still wore a loose, flowing Gypsy dress, probably with nothing under it, but it was a dress made of the finest fabrics. Tailored—if it was possible to tailor for a blimp. Also, her slangy language had improved—at least a little.
She whooped happily seeing her long-ago Mantis commander and started to buss Kilgour before she remembered their continuing, reason-lost, half-jesting feud. “You hadda bring him."
"He gets in trouble without a minder,” Sten agreed. “Nqo, thae't th’ question ae th’ hour,” Alex said. “Who's th’ keeper an’ who's th’ bairn? I” fact, Ah mean."
Ida led them to her quarters. A bridge suite on a prehistoric ocean ship might have been more luxurious—but that was unlikely. Tapestries. Couches. Tables barely visible under a galaxy of delicacies.
"And it all clears for action in ten seconds,” Ida said proudly. “Action stations, and this is a countermissile battery over there—launchers are under the floorboards right now. Over here's an emergency CIC. And the bath becomes a med clearing station.
"We've got Scotch from Earth. Real Scotch. What they call a single-malt. Not that clottin’ imitation I read our late and lamented Emperor poured.
"My own lager for you, Kilgour. Not that you'll appreciate it."
Ida Kalderash was a Romany—a Gypsy. The race/culture still existed, and still thrived, living as they did outside conventional society and its rules with a very keen eye for the credit—acquired as an individualistic Rom might see fit. Instead of caravans they used spaceships—for trading, smuggling, or just traveling for adventure and profit. Their customary laws—kris—required them to respect fidelity, their family, and returning favor for favor. Within the Rom. And even then, the customs were hardly commandments.
It was unheard of for a Rom to serve in the military, let alone the supersecret Mantis Teams. How and why Ida ended up on Mantis Section 13, under the command of Lieutenant Sten, was an even bigger and even less answerable puzzler. She had been carried on the rolls as pilot and electronics specialist. She was also their unofficial banker, gambler, and “investment” specialist. At the end of a mission the “investments” would be liquidated, and the team members would be flush enough for truly exotic leaves.
&nbs
p; When Mantis 13 had been broken up and Sten transferred to the Imperial Guard, Ida had refused reenlistment and vanished back to her culture.
She had surfaced—in absentia on a fiche—after Sten and Alex had escaped from the Tahn prison at Koldyeze and returned to Prime. The surfacing had been the announcement that she had accessed their pay that had been held while the two were POWs and invested. And invested. She had not explained—but both men became fabulously wealthy. They had been ... and might be again if the privy council were destroyed and they were no longer fugitives.
Ida had found a unique finale for the announcement: she had turned and hoisted her skirts at them.
As Alex had observed, “Th’ lass still dinnae wear knickers..."
"My family will join us for the feast,” Ida said. “They're curious to see how much I lied about you two gadje. Don't clot it up, Alex.” She led them to a sideboard and poured three drinks into crystal goblets. “To the dead past ... and a prayer this clottin’ present will soon join it."
Ida had turned somber.
"Your message was welcome, Sten,” she said.
"I didn't think it would have as large an effect."
"You expected just me—or me and my vita—my family?"
"That was the best I had hoped for."
"Times've changed for all of us. You're an admiral. I am now Voivode, chieftain of my band. Other voivodes have been known to listen to me, even if I am a woman."
"There's more to this many of your people showing up than just you being a heavyweight, Ida. Gypsies, from what I know, what you taught me, don't get together on anything,” Sten said skeptically.
"No. That is what we are—and there've been terrible tragedies because of this in our past. And another tragedy is on the wind.” Ida explained. The gypsies may have been outsiders, but they maintained careful intelligence contacts beyond their culture.
"That clottin’ council that killed the Emperor's decided that we're lice on the body politic. Mainly ‘cause we still have enough AM2 to hold together. They think we've got more'n we actually do—they don't know when a gypsy can't wander, he dies.
"So there'll be an open order on us. Seize our ships. Seize our cargoes. Seize the fuel. What happens to the people on board ... not mentioned."
