"I did not know, Sergeant Major Yeti, you were aware of just who your ancestors were," Naik Gunju Lama said in seeming innocence.
Kilgour sneered at him. "Frae off'cers Ah hae't'take drakh like tha' , but no frae a wee private who hae to gie back to Katmandu to have his pubes pulled.
"As ae was sayin't, Captain. One ae m'ancestors went on th' dole, an'—"
"What the hell's a dole?" Sten asked. There'd been no signals from his remotes, and so they had time to kill. Listening to another of Kilgour's absurd stories seemed as good a way to pass the time as anything.
"A wee fruit, shaped like a pineapple. Now dinna be interruptin' me, lad. So it's necessary tha' m' ancestor sees a quack, to certify he's nae able to ply his trade.
"The doc looks a' m' ancestor, one Alex Selkirk Kilgour, an' blanches. 'Lad,' he says. 'Y' be missin't parts!'
"M' ancestor says, 'Aye.'
" 'Why'd y' nae hae transplants?'
" 'It was nae possible,' Selkirk explains. 'Y' see, till recent, Ah was a pirate.'
"The doc thinkit tha' makit sense, an proceeds wi' th' exam. Whae he's done, he says, 'Sir, y'be't healthy aye a MacDonald.'
" 'Exceptin' tha' missin't parts.'
"So Selkirk, he explainit: 'Y'see't tha' missin't leg? Wi' the peg? All was boardin't a richun's yacht, an' th' lock door caught me.'
"Th' medico listen't, mos' fascinated.
" 'TV hook?' Selkirk gie on, 'Tha' be from't ae laser blast. Took m' paw off clean't ae whistle.'
" 'An' the eye?' the doc asks.
"Selkirk, e' fingers th' patch. Th' eye? Tha's frae seagull crap.'
"Th' wee surgeon's a' puzzled an' all.
" 'Seagull crap?'
" 'Aye. Ah was dockyard, starin't up ae a crane, an a gull go't o'er an' deposits.'
" 'But how can seagull crap...'
" 'Ah, doctor, y'see, Ah'd only had the hook twa days.' "
Sten sought for the proper response and then found it. "Clottin' Romans!" And then he focused his attention back on the warning screens.
The San Jacinto, keeping itself sunward of the tumbling tramp freighter, matched orbits with the pinwheeling ship and nudged closer. Then a volunteer officer, his suit visor at maximum opacity, jetted a line across to one of the Montebello's tie-down pads. Then the destroyer's winches, at their lowest gearing, drew the two ships together.
Lavonne had assumed that the Montebeilo's lock system would not match his, in spite of Imperial design regulations, so he had the accordion tube ready. It inflated and spread out, fitting and sealing over the Montebello's lock.
Lavonne, an officer who believed in leading from the front, was suited and waiting inside the San Jacinto's lock. Behind him twenty sailors were suited up. The lock, one passageway, and a room were set up for the anticipated burnt crewmembers of the Montebello.
"Ten kilos, sir."
"All hands, seal suits." He, his twenty sailors, and the rest of the crew of the ship snapped their faceplates closed.
"Open the outer lock."
"Outer lock door opening, sir."
Air whooshed from the lock chamber into the accordion tube as the atmospheric pressures equalized. Lavonne grabbed the line running down the center of the tube and hand-over-handed to the Montebello's lock.
He keyed it open then he and his chief medical officer stepped inside. Lavonne punched the emergency code that allowed both lock doors to open simultaneously, and waited as atmosphere reequalized. He was braced for almost anything—null-atmosphere with exploded bodies; fire-blackened men and women; mutiny; chaos. Almost anything.
What he saw was three men. All wore Imperial uniforms. The slender man in front had the rank tabs of a captain in the Imperial Guard. All three men had willyguns aimed at his chest.
Lavonne gaped, but before he could recover, the captain said, "Imperial Service, Commander. I am commandeering your ship!"
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
The meeting room was a hush of diplomats. It was packed with the Tahn contingent and the Emperor's aides. In the far corner of the room the Emperor himself huddled in conference with Lord Kirghiz and Tanz Sullamora. Underlings on both sides were waiting for the final word. Was there to be an agreement or were they about to go to war?
If they had been inside the Emperor's head when the Tahn delegation arrived for the final meeting, there would have been no question. He had noted that everyone, from the lowest-ranking Tahn lord to Lord Kirghiz himself, was dressed in formal uniform. They were decked out in emerald green cloaks, red tunics, and green trousers. The tunics were covered with a rainbow of ribbons and dangling medals.
The Eternal Emperor covered a smile when he saw them; people put on their best for a party, not a declaration of war. He himself was dressed in his most simple uniform: It was a rich, light gray. And he wore only one decoration: his rank as head of state—a small gold button with the letters AM2 over a background of the null-element's atomic structure. The Eternal Emperor had pointed out to Mahoney once that the way to stand out in a crowd of gold braid was to upstage with simplicity. "When you're the ultimate boss," he once observed, "you don't have to announce it."
The Emperor rose to his feet and extended a hand to Kirghiz. "Then we're agreed?"
Lord Kirghiz fought to maintain a dignified face. But he couldn't help his smile of victory. "Agreed."
"Then let's leave the details to our staffs," the Emperor said. "We can dot our i's and cross our't's on a mutually beneficial date.
"Now, I have taken the liberty of anticipating our peaceful solution to the late difficulties. Gentlemen. Ladies. If I may invite you to a small dinner of appreciation."
He waved his hand and huge doors hissed open behind him. The Tahn craned their necks to see a richness of food and drink yawning out behind the Emperor. There were loud cheers, much laughter, and the Eternal Emperor led his guests into the banquet room.
The banquet was the highlight of Marr and Senn's long career. They had spared nothing to lay out one of the most exotic official dinners in Imperial history.
To begin with, they had been faced with the task of making the enormous ship's banquet hall feel cozy. So they'd ordered the bulkheads moved in, and then draped them in soft colors to warm the atmosphere. The tables were artfully placed so that no one felt cut off from the main attraction, the Emperor and Kirghiz, who were seated across from one another at the head table. They had also gutted the lighting system and installed indirect illumination that picked out the gleam of silver and polish of plate and highlighted the appetizing dishes being served.
The greatest miracle was the food itself. Naturally, since the Emperor was the host, the menu consisted of Tahn dishes, offering condiments and spices that the caterers knew would compliment and entice the Tahn palate.
As for service, they went one step further. The ultimate in luxury was to be served by a person, rather than a machine or even a high-priced waiter bot. Therefore, Marr and Senn had pressed the Praetorian Guards into service. Behind each diner was a Guardsman in full dress who, at the slightest gesture, would pour wine, change a dish, or sweep something out of the way.
The man most pleased with the arrangement was Admiral Ledoh. He couldn't have planned it better himself. He picked up his wine goblet and took a small sip. He had to admit that Marr and Senn were a very talented pair. It was unfortunate that their greatest banquet was to be their last.
Ledoh glanced over to Colonel Fohlee, who was seated at the far end of the table. Ledoh raised his glass to Fohlee in a silent toast. Fohlee returned the salute.