Authors: Keith Laumer
“Still—I must give those men their chance to declare
themselves.”
“As the Prince wishes—but I’ll keep my blaster loose in its holster—just
in case . . .”
The
Prince rode in the lead with his guidon at his left, followed by thirty-five
men, formed up in a precise triangle of seven ranks, with two honor guards out
on the flanks. The rear guard followed, holding the reins of the mount to which
General Hish, still hissing bitter complaints, was lashed.
The Invincibles moved down the slope and out onto the broad
tarmac, hooves clattering against the paved surface. The two men on the ramp
turned, stoop gaping. The one above at the ship’s entry port whirled,
disappeared inside.
The troop rode on; they were halfway to the ship now. One of
the waiting Greenbacks unlimbered his power gun, cranked the action, the other
followed suit. Both stepped forward half a dozen paces, brought their weapons
up uncertainly.
“Halt! Who the Hell’s there!” one bawled.
Tavilan flipped the corner of his hunting cape forward over
his shoulder to show the royal Eloran device, came on in silence.
The taller of the two Greenbacks raised his rifle, hesitated,
half-lowered it. Riding half a pace behind Tavilan, Retief eased his pistol
from its holster, watching the doorway above. On his right, Count Arrol held
his crossbow across his knee, a bolt cocked in the carriage, his finger on the
trigger.
Ten feet from the two Greenback sentries, Prince Tavilan
reined in.
“Aren’t you men accustomed to render a proper salute when
your Commander makes a surprise inspection?” he said calmly.
The Greenbacks looked at each other, fingering their guns.
“It looks as though the word had gone out,” Arrol whispered
to Retief.
“You cover the Prince; I’ll handle the entry port,” Retief
murmured.
At that moment a figure eased into view at the port; light
glinted from the front sight of a power gun as it came up, steadied—
Retief sighted, fired; in the instantaneous blue glare, the
man at the port whirled and fell outward. The Greenback nearest Tavilan made a
sudden move to swing his gun on the Prince—then stumbled back, a steel quarrel
from Arrol’s cross-bow standing in his chest. The second Greenback dropped his
weapon, stood with raised hands, his mouth open and eyes wide, then turned and
ran.
Tavilan leaped down from his steed, dashed for the access
ladder, his cross-bow ready. As though on command, four men followed him, while
others scattered to form a rough semi-circle at the base of the ladder.
Sheltered behind a generator unit, Retief and Arrol covered the port. Tavilan
disappeared inside, the men at his heels. There was a long half-minute of dead
silence. Then a shout sounded from the next vessel in line, a hundred yards
distant. Tavilan reappeared, gestured.
“Everybody in,” Arrol called. The men went for the ladder,
sprang up in good order; those waiting on the ramp faced outward, covering all
points.
A
light flashed briefly from the adjacent vessel; a sharp report echoed. A man
fell from the ladder; others caught him, lifted him up. Far away, a harsh voice
bellowed orders.
“They aren’t using any heavy stuff,” Arrol said. “They
wouldn’t want to nick the paint on their new battle wagon . . .”
A squad of men appeared, running from the shadows at the base
of the ship from which the firing had come. Most of the troop were up the
ladder now; two men hustled the struggling Groaci up. Beside Retief, Arrol
launched three bolts in rapid-fire order. Two of the oncoming men fell. The
blue flashes of power guns winked; here and there, the surface of the tarmac
boiled as wild shots struck.
“Come on . . .” The two men ran for the
ladder; Arrol sprang for it, swarmed up. Retief followed; molten metal
spattered as a power-gun bolt vaporized the handrail. Then hands were hauling
him inside.
“Hit the deck,” Arrol yelled. “We’re
lifting . . . ?”
“We
took one burst from an infinite repeater,” an officer reported, “but no serious
damage was done. They held their fire just a little too long.”
“We were lucky,” Prince Tavilan said. “One man killed, one
wounded. It’s fortunate we didn’t select the next ship in line; we’d have had a
hornet’s nest on our hands.”
“Too bad we broke up the battalion crap game,” Retief
commented. “But by now they’ll be lifting off after us—a few of them, anyway.”
“All right—we’ll give them a warm welcome before they nail
us—”
“If I may venture to suggest—”
Tavilan waved a hand, grinning. “Every time you get too
damned polite, you’ve got some diabolical scheme up your sleeve. What is it
this time, Retief?”
“We won’t wait around to be nailed. We’ll drive for Deep
Space at flank speed—”
“And run into Dangredi’s blockage? I’d rather use my
firepower on Prouch’s scavengers.”
“That’s where our friend the General comes in.” Retief nodded
toward the trussed Groaci. “He and Dangredi are old business associates. We’ll
put him on the screen and see if he can’t negotiate a brief truce. With the
approval of Your Highness, I think we can make an offer that will interest
him . . .”
The flagship of the pirate fleet was a four-hundred-year-old,
five-hundred-thousand-ton dreadnought, a relic of pre-Concordiat times. In the
red-lit gloom of its cavernous Command Control deck, Retief and Prince Tavilan
relaxed in deep couches designed for the massive frames of the Hondu corsairs.
Opposite them, Dangredi, the Hondu chieftain, lounged at ease, his shaggy,
leather-strapped, jewel-spangled 350-pound bulk almost overflowing his throne-like
chair. At Retief’s side, General Hish perched nervously. Half a dozen of
Tavilan’s Invincibles stood around the room, chatting with an equal number of
Dangredi’s hulking officers, whose greenish fur looked black in the light from
the crimson lamps.
“What I failing to grasp,” Dangredi rumbled, “is reason for
why suddenly now changing of plan previously okayed.”
“I hardly think that matters,” Tavilan said smoothly. “I’ve
offered to add one hundred thousand Galactic Credits to the sum already agreed
on.”
“But the whole idea was compensate me, Grand Hereditary War
Chief of Hondu people, for not fight; now is offering more pay for stand and
give battle . . .”
“I thought you Hondu loved war,” an Eloran officer said.
Dangredi nodded his heavy green-furred head, featureless but
for two wide green-pupiled eyes. “Crazy mad for warring, and also plenty fond
of cash. But is smelling rodent somewhere in woodpile . . .”
“It’s very simple, Commodore,” Retief said. “General Hish
here had arranged with you to flee when the People’s Volunteer forces attacked;
now changing conditions on Elora make it necessary that you fight—and in place
of the loot you would otherwise so rightly expect, you’ll collect a handsome
honorarium—”
Suddenly the Groaci leaped to his feet, pointed at Retief.
“Commodore Dangredi,” he hissed. “This renegade diplomat beside me holds a gun
pointed at my vitals; only thus did he coerce me to request this parley. Had I
guessed his intention, I would have dared him to do his worst. Seize the
traitor, Excellency!”
Dangredi stared at the Groaci.
“He—and these strutting popinjays—plot against the security
of the People’s State of Elora!” Hish whispered urgently. “The plan remains
unchanged! You are to flee engagement with the forces of Minister Prouch!”
The great green head bobbed suddenly; hooting laughter
sounded. A vast hand slapped a thigh like a shaggy beer keg.
“Aha! At last is getting grasp of situation,” Dangredi
bellowed. “Now is little honest treachery, kind of dealing Hondu
understanding!” He waved a hand at a servitor standing by. “Bringing wassail
bowl, plenty meat!” He brought his hands together with a dull boom, rubbed them
briskly. “Double-cross, plenty fighting, more gold at end of trail! Is kind of
operation I, Dangredi, Hereditary War chief, dreaming of in long nights of
tooth-shedding time!”
“But these—these criminal kidnappers have no authority to
deal—”
“Groaci-napping is harmless pastime—like stealing wine-melons
when cub. Unless, maybe . . .” he cocked a large emerald eye at
Hish “ . . . you maybe raising ante?”
“I . . . I will match the offer of the
saboteurs of interplanetary amity! One hundred thousand in Groaci gold!”
Dangredi considered briefly. “No good. What about fighting?
You give Hondu gunners targets in sights? Or maybe chance for rough-and-tumble,
hand-to-hand, cold steel against enemy blades?”
General Hish shuddered. “In the name of civilization, I
appeal—”
“Shove civilization in ventral orifice! Hondu taking good,
crooked, blood-thirsty barbarians every time. Now disappearing quietly, Groaci,
while I and new buddies planning strategy. Maybe later I sending for you and
bending arms and legs until you tell all about enemy battle
plan . . .”
“The Groaci is our hostage,” Tavilan said as the general was
led away. “He’s not to be bent without my prior approval.”
“Sure; just having little joke.” Dangredi leaned back,
accepted a vast drumstick and a tank of wine, waited while his guests accepted
proffered delicacies.
“Now, Retief, you say attack coming
when . . . ?”
“I must confess,” Counselor Magnan said, “I don’t quite
understand how it happened that after trouncing the Eloran Volunteers, the
pirate Dangredi voluntarily gave himself up and offered the services of his
entire fleet as a reserve force to replace the very units he destroyed.”
“Never mind that, Magnan,” Ambassador Hidebinder said. “As
seasoned campaigners must, we shall accept the
fait accompli
. Our
resettlement plans are set back a year, at least. It’s doubly unfortunate that
Prime Minister Prouch suffered a fall just at this time. Magnan, you’ll attend
the funeral.”
“With pleasure, Mr. Ambassador,” Magnan said. “That is, I’ll
be honored—”
“Retief . . .” Hidebinder glared across the
table. “I’m not going to press civil charges, since the Eloran government, at
the behest of Prince Tavilan, has dropped the case. However, I may as well tell
you at once—your future with the Corps is non-existent. A trifling embezzlement
of official funds, I could wink at. Embellished reports, slack performance of
duty, cowardice in the face of the enemy—these I could shrug off as youthful
peccadilloes. But foot-dragging in the carrying out of Corps policy—” his fist
thumped the desk. “Intolerable!”
A
messenger entered the conference room, handed a note to Magnan, who passed it
to Hidebinder; he opened it impatiently, glanced at it. His jaw dropped. He
read it through again. His mouth closed; his jowls paled, quivering.
“Mr. Ambassador—what is it?” Magnan gasped.
Hidebinder rose and tottered from the room. Magnan snatched
up the paper, read it through, then stared at Retief.
“He’s been—declared
persona non grata
—The Imperial
government gives him twelve hours to leave Elora . . . !”
Retief glanced at the wall clock. “If he hurries, he can
catch the mail boat.”
“And you, Retief . . . !”
Retief
raised his eyebrows. Magnan glanced around the table. “If you gentlemen will
excuse us for a few moments . . . ?” Half a dozen frowning
diplomats filed from the room. Magnan cleared his throat. “This is
most
irregular, Retief! The imperial government requests that you present
credentials as Minister Plenipotentiary and Ambassador Extraordinary at
once . . . they will accept no other appointee . . .”
Retief tsked. “I told Prince Tavilan I wouldn’t have time for
a ceremonial job. I have a suggestion, Mr. Magnan: suppose I nominate you for
the post?”
“Over the heads of a hundred senior officers?” Magnan gasped.
“Retief, dear boy . . .”
“That is, if your distaste for monarchies isn’t
overwhelming . . . ?”
“Eh? Oh, well, as to that,” Magnan sat erect, tugged his
lapels into place. “I’ve always had a sneaking admiration for absolute
royalty.”
“Fine.
Dangredi will be along in a few minutes to arrange for supplies; it seems there
are a few shiploads of CDT-sponsored undesirables already landing on the
northern continent who’ll have to be warned off. It’s probably just a slip. I’m
sure our former Ambassador wouldn’t have jumped the gun in violation of solemn
treaties.”
“Ah,” Magnan said.
“And, of course, the Royal Navy will require
provisioning—just
to be sure the new Reservists don’t get any large ideas . . .”
“Uh . . .”
“And, of course, a new treaty plainly guaranteeing the
territorial integrity of Elora will have to be worked up at
once . . .”
“Oh . . .”
Retief rose. “All of which I’m sure you’ll handle brilliantly,
Mr. Ambassador. And by the way—I think I could best serve the mission in some
other capacity than as Admin Officer . . .”