by Chris Bunch
"Overthrow the tyrant and then appoint a council of church elders to study the matter. They should have their report ex cathedra in, what, Mahoney? A thousand years?"
"More than that, sir." Mahoney gurgled, still recovering from the pure alcohol. "He said he chose the longest-winded theologicians he could find. More like two thousand."
The Emperor shut off the viewer, got up, grabbed the flask, and poured two more shots. He gasped his down, then mused aloud:
"Mantis Section. Why do I keep you people around, since you insist on doing exactly what I want, exactly in the manner I don't want?"
Mahoney stuck with beer drinking and silence.
"Correction to my last order, Colonel," the Emperor said, smiling in a moderately evil manner. "Do not court-martial this Sten.
"I want him.
"Detach him from Mantis and Mercury. Give him some kind of acceptable hero background in the Guard.
"Ummm," Mahoney insubordinated.
"Captain Sten is now the commander of my personal bodyguard. The Gurkhas."
And Mahoney's shot went across the room and the beerjug gurgled out, unnoticed, on the carpet.
"God damn it, your Majesty, how the clot can I run an intelligence service when you keep stealing my best men?"
"Good point, Colonel." The Eternal Emperor took a tiny order fiche from his desk and Mahoney realized just how badly he'd been set up.
"These are your orders—Congratulations, General Mahoney, and my further congratulations on your detachment and reassignment from Imperial Headquarters to command the First Guards Assault Division."
Mahoney threw the fiche to the floor, which was an ineffective gesture, since the tiny bit of plas insisted on drifting downward.
"You can't clottin' do this to me! I just spent seventy-five years building up this clottin' Mercury Corps, and—"
"And I am the god damned Eternal Emperor," the man growled and came around his desk. "I can do what I clotting well please, General, and congratulations on your new post and am I going to have to whip your ass to get you to drink with me?"
Mahoney considered for a second, then started chuckling.
"No, sir, your Imperial Majesty, sir. Thank you, sir. Since I have no choice, your Imperial Majesty, sir, I accept."
Besides, Mahoney was not at all sure he could take the Emperor. Let alone what would come afterward if he did.
The Emperor grunted and poured more drinks. "You served me well, lan. I know you'll continue to do the same in your new position. And clot it, don't make things so hard for me when I want to be nice for a change.
"But don't forget this Sten," the Eternal Emperor said, reaching for the flask. "I have an idea he is going to go very far indeed.
"In fact, I'll give you one of my predictions.
"Sten will either end up on the gallows or as a Fleet Admiral."
And the two men drank deeply.
About The Authors
CHRIS BUNCH is a Ranger—an airborne-qualified Vietnam Vet—who's written about phenomena as varied as the Hell's Angels, the Rolling Stones, and Ronald Reagan.
ALLAN COLE grew up in the CIA in odd spots like Okinawa, Cyprus, and Taiwan. He's been a professional chef, investigative reporter, and national news editor of a major West Coast daily newspaper. He's won half a dozen writing awards in the process.
BUNCH AND COLE, friends since high school, have collaborated on everything from the world's worst pornographic novel to over fifty television scripts, as well as a feature movie. This is their second novel.
