Mahoney's father and grandfather before him had first been fairly high ranking officers and then made comfortable second and third careers in civilian megacorporations.
"I say again my last. Why?"
"Maybe the twinkle in your Irish eyes," the Emperor suggested. "Or maybe because I've got the Tahn in a reactive situation and am grinding it in.
"By the way. That wasn't a breach of security. We—or rather you—are going against the Fringe Worlds. With every ship and troopie I can strip out of other sectors. And I want the Tahn to know about it.
"Their prestige isn't doing too good these days, what with Lord Fehrle happening to have gotten dead and their legions getting obliterated.
"The Tahn believe in symbols. I'm giving them one.
"Every clottin' 'cast that goes out is talking about how important those clottin' Fringe Worlds are to the Empire and to me personally. There is no way those imbeciles aren't going to take the bait."
The Emperor, having made one of his longer private statements, found it necessary to have a drink or two.
"So I'm part of the symbol?"
"Yep. You'll notice, if you do any reading besides Op orders, that I went and stole colorful bits from at least three old-time generals. And the hype is going to get worse.
"You see, Mahoney, we're going to win. Soon.
"Which brings up the question of what we're going to do with all these clottin' Tahn worlds. Rykor had a suggestion. Seems there's some types who respect the clot out of somebody who beats hell out of them."
Mahoney shook his head. "Don't understand that, sir. My dad always said the only people who fight and make up are tinkers and Englishmen. Whatever they are."
"Yeah. That's the way I've always operated, too," the Emperor agreed. "But we aren't Tahn.
"So you're going out to the Fringe Worlds. The Tahn are going to throw everything at you they can, and you're going to be my little Imperial meat grinder.
"Couple of side notes that might help you. We'll use Naha as a forward strike base into the Tahn worlds. So you'll be able to access a good left hook if you need it.
"Another thing. Seems there's this terrible conspiracy going on in the Tahn worlds."
Mahoney looked interested, if disbelieving.
"Said conspiracy is composed of a whole cluster of Tahn officers who maybe have been recorded as not being happy with the way the war's not being run.
"We can thank our friend Sten for discovering all these quote traitors endquote."
Both men grinned—unpleasantly.
"He built me a conspiracy and sent it forward. Now, some of my—pardon, the Tahn's—most trusted agents are leaking that conspiracy back. Category One intelligence and all that.
"Where were we?
"Oh, yeah. You've just finished slaughtering every Tahn that shows up in the Fringe Worlds with a chip on her shoulder. So next, when we make the final assault into the Tahn worlds themselves, you'll be in charge.
"Don't plan on any long vacations after the war's over, either. Because I'm going to put you in as—hell, maybe I'll call it governor-general—for their whole stinkin' ex-empire. At which point you'll have ten years or so trying to teach the Tahn how to pretend they're human."
Mahoney meditated. Finally, he laughed. "Great stew, boss. Now all we have to do is catch the rabbit."
"Exactly," the Emperor agreed. "Do me a favor, Ian. Don't get your butt whipped out there in the Fringe Worlds. I don't want to have to start planning from day one all over."
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The members of the Tahn High Council gloomed their way to order. The elder secretary drowned through the final draft of Lord Fehrle's official obituary. When he finished, the first order of business would be the vote for approval and then scheduling it for broadcast.
The second order of business would be the vote for Fehrle's successor. What would happen next was anybody's guess.
The king is dead, Pastour thought sourly. Long live the king.
He looked at the tight, guarded faces of his twenty-six colleagues. They were all holding their cards nipple-close to their chests. But Pastour already knew the outcome. He had counted the votes. Wichman's faction of nine was backing Atago. No surprise there. Wichman was in love with the trappings of war. And even among the military-minded Tahn, no single being shone more as a soldier than the Lady Atago.
The second faction—of equal size—favored a troika composed of various candidates but with Atago, Wichman, and Pastour mentioned most often. That left Pastour and his faction: another nine votes, nine swing votes to be played any way he chose. But there was no question in Pastour's mind on how to play the hand. All he had to do was wait through the endless droning of the late Lord Fehrle's accomplishments.
Sten had visited him again in his garden a few nights after Fehrle's death. Pastour did not know how he had gotten in—Sten had not used the drain again. The clot just seemed to appear out of the shadows of one of Pastour's most prized trees. As soon as he had spotted him, Pastour's Tahn emotions had jumped like a crown fire from frightened surprise to pure hating anger over Fehrle's assassination.
"Don't be stupid, Colonel," Sten had warned him. "The last thing your people need right now is a stupid man for a leader. A dead stupid man."
Pastour had pulled himself back. "What do you want this time?"
Sten had relaxed then. He had tucked his weapon away and hoisted himself up on his perch. It was a casual action, but Pastour realized that it was carefully calculated to eliminate any hint of threat from his body language.
"First of all, I heard about the changes at Koldyeze. I wanted to thank you for that."
Pastour shrugged. "There's nothing to thank me for. Nothing you said influenced me. It was the logical course."
"If that's how you want to think about it, Colonel, fine. We were just worried about some friends. Doesn't matter how they were taken care of. Just as long as it was done.
"Although I did notice some refinements from our discussion. A lot of new faces. Important new faces. I assume you're planning to use them as a hole card. If so, I've got to warn you. It won't work."
Pastour could not help showing his curiosity. "Are you telling me that if we held a gun to their heads, we couldn't win some concessions from your Emperor?"
"It'll just make him hit you harder," Sten said. "Believe me. I speak from long and very personal experience. The only thing you get out of the Emperor if you threaten him is a lot of bloody stumps."
Pastour understood. That was also the way of the Tahn. Perhaps that was where they had gone wrong years before. The public image of the Emperor was kindly, concerned, that of a vigorous and handsome young uncle with wisdom well beyond his visible age. But that was obviously a falsehood. Perhaps the Emperor was more Tahnlike than the Tahn themselves.
Pastour wondered how bloody the Emperor's vengeance would be if the prisoners—especially the important prisoners—of Koldyeze came to harm. Pastour shuddered for his people. He knew what he would do if he were in the Emperor's place.
He pulled himself back. Sten was studying him as if he were seeing Pastour's thoughts form and dissolve and re-form.