So far, the game had lived up to expectations. At the bottom of the fifth and final period, the score was fifty-three all after a series of seesaw duels that had marked the four hours of play. In the last period, Naismith, the big red-uniformed Ranger center, had fought his way four times through and around the Blues' heavy-gravity hotspots until he was within scoring distance. And each time the Blues had rallied, blocking the light-gravity lanes and driving the Rangers back onto their own territory. The game had been so fiercely contested that every hotspot on either side had been racked up to a full penalty three gees.
Rabbaj, the Blues' center, took the ball. Forwards veed out from him, hunting for a weakness in the Rangers' defense. Blue guards took up position near the light-grav lanes in their own territory. Then it was Rabbaj! Shooting past his own forwards, feinting left at a hotspot, then driving through a hole in the line. Then he was in the clear. An undefended light-grav lane just ahead! And beyond that, the tantalizing splash of red that marked the Rangers' goal line! The home crowd groaned. They were looking into the maw of a fourth humiliating defeat. A heartbeat, and Rabbaj was into the light-grav lane and jumping... jumping... jumping—
Tanz Sullamora palmed the switch that chopped the sound and blacked out the big windows that overlooked the playing field. He shook an angry finger at his colleagues on the privy council.
"I'm the one taking all the risks," he said, his voice shaking in fury. "We all vote Volmer has to go. Fine.
But then I'm the one who has to do it. We all agree on the plan. Wonderful. Except once again, it's good old Tanz who sticks his neck out with Chapelle."
"We're all behind you, my friend," Malperin murmured. "I don't see what the problem is. If you fall, we all fall. We agreed on that, didn't we?"
"Sure," one of the Kraa twins soothed. "Me 'n' my sister been with you from the start, Tanz. All the way in or not at all is our motto."
Sullamora snorted at this. There were few businessbeings who were more notorious than the Kraas when it came to backstabbing. He looked over at Kyes for support, but the silvery eminence did not seem to be paying attention. Instead, he was lolling in one of the huge, ornate overstuffed armchairs, staring at the blank window as if he were still watching the in-progress gravball match. Sullamora slumped down in frustration and choked back a fat drink. The other members of the council were silent, staring around the owner's suite in pretended curiosity at the baroque-upon-baroque setting.
One of Lovett's more eccentric ancestors had built the enormous all-weather arena. It had no equal on Prime World. It could be converted within a few days to play host to any event from agricultural fairs to high-speed boat races. The seating was designed so that even the poorest fan could see the action. And looming over all of it was the imposing dome that was the owner's suite. Several hundred "close friends" could easily be entertained in that suite, although the multitude of garish paintings, stuffed animal heads, rickety statuary, and oddly formed furniture tended to make even two people feel claustrophobic. It produced the kind of atmosphere that would bring out the violence in even the most committed pacifist.
Perhaps that was what was making Sullamora behave so out of character, allowing his anger to be seen by his peers. Or maybe it was because he was suddenly feeling very vulnerable. The way things stood, if the plan failed, only Sullamora would take the blame. The others were clean. Nothing could be traced to them. Adding to the pressure was that this was most certainly the last time the members would be able to meet out of public view without arousing suspicion. The match between the Rangers and the Blues was likely to be their last excuse.
It was Kyes who finally broke the silence. He went right for the bottom line. "What do you require of us, Tanz?"
Sullamora acknowledged him with a nod and fished six cards out of his pocket. He skimmed them across the table like a dealer, one for each being at the table and one for himself. The cards were made of indestructible plas. Kyes was the first to slide his card into the viewing slot in front of him. A small port opened in front of him, and words lit up on a tiny screen. The others did the same with their cards.
WE, THE MEMBERS OF THE PRIVY COUNCIL, AFTER DUE CONSIDERATION, HAVE COME TO THE RELUCTANT CONCLUSION THAT THE ETERNAL EMPEROR HAS BECOME INCREASINGLY AND DANGEROUSLY UNSTABLE. THEREFORE, WE HAVE DETERMINED TO TAKE THE FOLLOWING ACTIONS...
It was the preamble to assassination. And at the bottom were six places for the signature prints of each being at the table. Once the marks were made, there would be no turning back. And each conspirator would be equally culpable.
There was a long moment. Once again it was Kyes who went first. He smiled and made his mark. One by one the others did the same.
Chapelle would be activated.
Out on the playing field, the home crowd happily rioted. The defeated Blue team was retreating behind a phalanx of armored cops. Naismith was being hoisted on his teammates' shoulders. And the celebrating fans poured out of the stadium for a glorious night of rapine, looting, drinking, and general head busting.
Honor had been restored.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
"Got a question. Sir," Fleet Marshal Mahoney growled. "And a request. Sir."
"GA," the Eternal Emperor said.
"First. What's the official Imperial policy on torture?"
"Bad thing. Don't get caught doing it."
Mahoney nodded. "You mind if I brainburn this clot a little bit? Slow? Promise not to get caught doing it."
"Tsk. And she appears to have such a bright future."
"Future," Mahoney snarled. "Listen to this drakh."
He read aloud from the news dispatch on the video display. "'Suddenly the smile vanished, and I was reminded that this man is the Empire's fiercest fighter, a leader who sends millions of men and thousands of ships into battle, a strategist whose very presence in a sector has caused the Tahn to surrender in droves.'
"Droves," Mahoney said. "I got more POW interrogators than I do POWs."
"Yeah," the Emperor agreed. "I would've said hordes. Better word."
Mahoney went on. " 'Now we're preparing for the grand offensive,' " Fleet Marshal Mahoney said in a steely voice. " 'Against the Fringe Worlds. I got thrown the hell out of there and didn't like it. I promised that one day I would return.
" 'Now we're going back.
" 'We have the Tahn reeling in all sectors. This should be the death blow. It will be a long and a hard struggle. But this will put us within sight of the end.'
"Drakh, drakh, drakh, charming wife, Spartan but well-chosen quarters, idolized by aides, men hold him in awe, dedicated to the welfare of his grunts. Drakh.
"The hack that wrote that deserves torture."
" Por que?" the Emperor asked.
Mahoney started to snap, then caught himself. Okay. The Emperor's getting cute. Getting up, he went to the sideboard and reached for the Scotch. He changed his mind in midreach and poured a blast of stregg.
"Okay, boss," he said, reseating himself. "I'm the straight man. You aren't upset that this writer seems to have bashed security in talking about where we're gonna strike next.
"And this is the first time I've heard about this general offensive. Ignore that. Let's get into the small stuff. Like I never met this hack in my life. And where'd that charming wife come from?"
Mahoney cogitated—then swore. "Boss, you're not really gonna do this to me, are you?"
"Sure am," the Emperor said. "We need a real hero-type general, and your name came out of the hopper. By the way, you think that story's bad, you ought to see what the real credit-dreadfuls are doing. How about the fact that you're a real fighting leader—you still carry a hand weapon everywhere. And the story about when you were a young lieutenant in charge of some outpost somewhere and the ration ship was delayed and for six months you fed your troops out of your own pocket? Real admirable. Especially considering you came from a poor but honest family."