Mahoney just gave him a puzzled look.
The Emperor sighed. "Never mind. I guess when you leave I'll have to pat his poo-poo again."
"Speaking of that, sir."
"Yeah. I know."
The matter at hand was the boarding and subsequent release of the Baka. Van Doorman may not have filed a report, but one of Mahoney's agents, put in place in the days when Mahoney had run Imperial Intelligence—Mercury Corps—had.
"First thing we've got to do, sir, is bust that clotting Doorman down to brig rat third class."
"I've never been able to figure out if beings become soldiers because they're simple, or whether wearing a uniform makes them that way," the Emperor said. He paused and drank. "Van Doorman has got six—count them, six—of my idiot members of parliament who think he's the most brilliant swabbie since Nelson."
"You're just going to leave him running amok with the 23rd Fleet?"
"Of course not. I am going to amass, most carefully, a very large stone bucket. At the appropriate time, I'll run some of my pet politicos out to the Fringe Worlds on a fact-finding mission. They'll come back and tell me how terrible things are. After that, I'll be reluctantly forced to give Doorman another star and put him in charge of iceberg watching somewhere."
"Sir, I don't think we have that kind of time. Both my agent and Sten agree that every swinging Richard on the Baka was a Tahn officer. They are getting ready to hit us."
"Forget Doormat for a minute, refill my goddamned glass, and tell me what you want to do. And no, I am not going to authorize a preemptive first strike on Heath."
"That," General Mahoney said, following orders, "was going to be one of my options."
"Remember, Ian. I don't start wars. I just finish them."
Mahoney held up a hand. He had heard time and again the Emperor's belief that no one wins in a war and that the more wars that are fought, the weaker the structure of the society fighting them becomes. "What about this one, sir? What about—"
"You tried that one before, General. And I am still not going to redeploy your First Guards on the Fringe Worlds. We are, right now, about one millimeter from going to war with the Tahn. I am doing everything I goddamned know to keep that from happening. I plonk your thugs out there, and that would be it."
Mahoney framed his sentence very carefully. The Emperor may have considered Mahoney a confidant and even maybe a friend—but he still was the Eternal Emperor, and one step over the line could put General Mahoney out there looking for icebergs with Doorman. "No offense, sir. But supposing you can't stop the Tahn? Meaning no disrespect."
The Emperor growled, started to snap, and decided to finish his drink instead. He got up and stared out the window at the palace gardens below. "There is that," he said finally. "Maybe I'm getting too set in my ways."
"Then I can—"
"Negative, General. No Guards." The Emperor considered for another moment. "How long has it been since the First Guards went through jungle refresher training?"
"Six months, sir."
"Way too long. I'm ashamed of you, Mahoney, for letting your unit get fat and sloppy."
Mahoney didn't even bother to protest—the Emperor had his scheming look about him.
"Seems to me I own some kind of armpit swamp out in that part of the universe. Used to be a staging base back in the Mueller Wars."
Mahoney crossed to one of the Emperor's computer terminals and searched. "Yessir. Isby XIII. Unoccupied now except by what the fiche says are some real nasty primordials and a caretaker staff on the main base. And you're right. It's very close to the Fringe Worlds. It'd take me... maybe a week to transship from there."
"Would you stop worrying about the Fringe Worlds? The solution with those gentle and lovable Tahn will be diplomatic. The only reason I'm punting you out there is to see whether mosquitoes like Mick blood." Then the Emperor turned serious. "Christ, Mahoney. That's the best I can think of. Right now, I'm starting to run out of Emperor moves."
And Major General Ian Mahoney wondered if maybe he'd better make sure his own life insurance policy was current.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The twenty-seven members of the Tahn Council sat in various attitudes of attention as Lady Atago detailed the progress on Erebus. Even on screen her chilly efficiency cut across the light-years separating her from the Tahn home world of Heath. If there was any deference in her manner to her superiors, it was only to her mentor, Lord Fehrle, the most powerful member of the council.
"... And so, my lords and ladies," she was saying, "in summation, the fleet is at sixty percent strength; fuel and other supplies, forty-three percent; weapons and ammunition, seventy-one percent."
Fehrle raised a finger for attention. "One question, my lady," he said. "Some of the members have expressed concern about crewing. What is the status, if you please?"
"It displeases me to say, my lord," Atago said, "that I can only give you an estimate. To be frank, training has not yet come up to Tahn standards."
"An estimate will do," Fehrle said.
"In that case, I would say we have enough manpower to place a skeleton crew aboard all currently operational ships. There would be gaps in key positions, of course, but I believe these deficiencies could be overcome."
"I have a question, if you please, my lady." This was from Colonel Pastour, the newest member of the council. Fehrle buried a groan of impatience and shot a glance at Lord Wichman, who just gave a slight shake of his head.
"Yes, my lord?"
"How long before we can be at full strength?"
"Two years, minimum," Lady Atago said without hesitation.
"In that case," Pastour continued, "perhaps the other members would benefit from your counsel. Do you advise us to proceed with the action under discussion?"
"It is not my place to say, my lord."
"Come, come. You must at least have an opinion."
Lady Atago's glare bored through him. Good, Fehrle thought. She's not going to be caught out by Pastour's seemingly innocent question.
"I'm sorry, my lord. I do not. My duty is to follow your orders, not to second-guess the thinking of the council."
But Pastour would not give up so easily. "Very admirable, my lady. However, as the fleet commander, you must have some estimate of our chances for success if we act immediately."
"Adequate, my lord."
"Only adequate?"
"Isn't adequate enough for any Tahn, my lord?"
Pastour flushed, and there were murmur of agreement from around the table. Fehrle decided to break in. Although the old colonel made him uneasy in his wavering, it was not good to threaten the unanimity of the council.
"I think that will be all for now, my lady," he said. "Now, if you will excuse us, we will be back to you within the hour with our decision."
"Thank you, my lord."
Fehrle palmed a button, and the screen image of Lady Atago vanished.
"I must say, my lord," Wichman said, "that I'm sure that I echo the sentiments of the other members of the council by expressing my pleasure in your choice of Lady Atago to command the fleet."
There were more murmur of agreement, except from Pastour, who had recovered and merely gave a chuckle.
"Right you are," he said. "Except if I were you, Lord Fehrle, I'd keep a weather eye on that woman. She's just a bit too good for comfort."
Fehrle ignored him. Pastour sometimes had a way of saying the oddest things. And at the moment, Fehrle was questioning his own decision to raise the man to the council. Well, no use worrying about that now. The fact was that Pastour was one of the key industrialists in the Tahn Empire. He also had the uncanny ability to raise large guard units—all of which he financed from his own pocket—where seemingly there had been few warm bodies available.