by David Weber
“Correct, Mr. Catrone,” Chung replied. “It wasn’t George Washington’s home, but it belonged to one of his family. And he apparently spent considerable time here.”
“Good general,” Catrone said. “Probably one of the best guerrilla fighters of his day.”
“And an honorable man,” Chung said. “A patriot.”
“Not many of them left,” Catrone probed.
“There are a few,” Chung said. Then, “I took the liberty of ordering wine. It’s a vintage from Marduk; I hope you like it.”
“I’m a beer drinker myself.”
“What the Mardukans call beer, you would not care for,” Chung said definitely. “There are times when you have to trust, and this is one of them. I can get you a Koun?”
“No, wine’s fine. Tipple is tipple.” Catrone looked at the blonde seated beside his host. “Ms. Stewart, I haven’t said how lovely you look tonight.”
“Please, call me Shara,” the blonde said, dimpling prettily.
“In that case, it’s Sheila and Tomcat,” Catrone replied.
“Watch him,” Sheila added with a grin. “He got the nickname for a reason.”
“Oh, I will,” Shara said. “Sheila, I need to powder my nose. Care to come along?”
“Absolutely,” Sheila said, standing up. “We can trade our war stories while they trade theirs.”
“Nice girl,” Tomcat said as the two walked toward the powder room.
“Yes, she is,” Chung replied, then looked Catrone in the eyes. “And a fine soldier. I’d say Captain Pahner sends his regards, but he is, very unfortunately, dead.”
“You’re him,” Catrone said.
“Yes.”
“Which one is she?”
“Nimashet Despreaux. My aide and fiancÈe.”
“Oh great!”
“Look, Sergeant Major,” Roger said, correctly interpreting the response. “We were on Marduk for eight months. Completely cut off. Stranded. You don’t maintain garrison conditions for eight months. Fraternization? Hell, Kosutic—that’s the hostess who led you over here—was carrying on for most of the time with Julian, who’s now my S-2. And don’t even get me started on the story of Gunny Jin. Nimashet and I at least waited until we were off-planet. And, yes, I’m going to marry her.”
“You got any idea how easy it is to monitor in a restaurant?” Catrone asked, changing the subject.
“Yes. Which is why everyone entering and leaving is scanned for any sort of surveillance device. And this table, in particular, is placed by the fire pit for a reason. That sizzling really does a number on audio.”
“Shit. Why the hell did you have to get my wife involved in this?”
“Because we’re on a very thin margin,” Roger pointed out. “Inviting just you would have been truly obvious.”
“Well, I’m not getting involved in treason, whatever your reasoning,” Catrone said. “You go your way, I’ll go mine.”
“This is not treason. I wasn’t there. I was on Marduk, okay? I’ve got all the proof of that you could ask for. Marduk. This is all Adoula. He’s holding my mother captive, and I am going to free her.”
“Fine, you go right ahead.” Catrone took a hard pull on the wine; his host was right, it was good. “Look, I did my time. And extra. Now I raise horses, do a little consulting, and watch the grass grow. What there is of it in the Gobi. I’m out of the Empire-saving business. Been there, done that, got really sick and tired of it. You’re wrong; there are no patriots any more. Just more and less evil fatcats.”
“Including my mother?” Roger demanded angrily.
“Keep your voice down,” Catrone said. “No, not including your mother. But it’s not about your mother, is it? It’s about a throne for Roger. Sure, I believe you weren’t in on the coup in the first place. But blood calls to blood, and you’re New Madrid’s boy. Bad seed. You think we don’t talk to each other in the Association? I know you, you little shit. You’re not worth a pimple on your brother’s ass. You think, even if it were possible, I’m going to walk in and give the Throne to you?”
“You knew me,” Roger grated. “Yeah, you’re right. I was a little shit. But this isn’t about me; it’s about Mother. Look, I’ve got some intel. What they’re doing to her is killing her. And as soon as the can is popped, Mom dies. Bingo. Gone.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Catrone said, then looked up. “Ladies, you’re looking even better than when you left, if that’s possible.”
“Isn’t he a lech?” Sheila said with a grin.
“He’s sweet,” Despreaux said.
“I’m not.” Catrone winked. “I’m a very bad boy. I understand you can be a right handful, too.”
“Sometimes,” Despreaux said warily.
“Very dangerous when cornered,” Tomcat continued. “A right bad cat.”
“Not anymore.” Despreaux looked over at Roger. “I . . . gave it up.”
“Really?” Catrone’s tone softened. “It happens . . . even to the best partyers.”
“I . . . got very tired,” Despreaux said. “All the partying gets to you after a while. Got to me, anyway. R—Augustus, well, I’ve never seen him turn down a party. He doesn’t start many, but he’s always the last man standing.”
“Really?” Catrone repeated in rather a different tone.
“Really.” Despreaux took Roger’s hand and looked at him sadly. “I’ve seen him at . . . too many parties. Big ones, small ones. Some . . . very personal ones. Sometimes I think he lives a little too much for partying.”
“Ah,” Roger said. “Rastar’s chopping up another joint. You have to watch this. He’s a master with a blade.”
“We saw it on the way in,” Sheila said. “He’s incredibly fast.”
“Augustus,” Despreaux said, “why don’t you show Sheila a real master?”
“You think?”
“Go ahead,” she said, catching Rastar’s eye.
Roger nodded, then stood up and walked to the far side of the bar. Rastar bowed to him and stepped back as Roger reached under the bar and pulled out two slightly smaller cleavers. He set them down, put a long apron on over his expensive clothes, and stepped up on the raised platform even the tallest human required to work at a cutting surface designed for Mardukans.
The cleavers were more like curved swords, about as long as a human forearm. Roger slid them into sheaths on a belt and buckled the belt around his waist, then bowed to the audience, which was watching the demonstration with interest.
He drew a deep breath and crossed his arms, placing a hand on either sword. Then he drew.
The blades blurred, catching the firelight as they twirled around his body, close enough from time to time that his long hair rippled in the breeze. They whirled suddenly upward in free flight, then dropped, only to be caught by the tips of the blades between either hand’s thumb and forefinger. He held them out at full extension by the same grips, and then they blurred again. Suddenly there was the sound of the blades hitting flesh, and perfectly sliced chunks of meat flew through the air to land on the dome in a complex dodecahedron.
The last slice flashed through the air, and Roger bowed to the applause as he cleaned the blades, then put all the tools away. He walked back to his table and gave another bow to the three diners.
“Very impressive,” Catrone said dryly.
“I learned in a hard school.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Would you like to see an example of the school?” Roger asked. “It’s a . . . special demonstration we perform. You see, we slaughter our own meat animals here. That way everything’s fresh. Caused a bit of a stink with the local animal lovers, until we showed them the meat animals in question.”
“You probably don’t want to watch this one, Sheila,” Despreaux said.
“I’m a farm girl,” Sheila replied. “I’ve seen slaughtering before.”
“Not like this,” Despreaux said. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“If you’re trying to impres
s me, Augustus . . .” Catrone said.
“I just think you should learn a little about the school,” Roger replied. “See some of the . . . faculty I studied under, as it were. It won’t take long. If Ms. Catrone wishes to sit it out . . . ?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for worlds,” Sheila declared, standing up. “Now?”
“Of course,” Roger said, standing in turn and offering her his arm.
Catrone trailed along behind, wondering what the young idiot might think would impress him about killing some Mardukan cow. A few other diners, who’d heard about the slaughtering demonstration, attached themselves and followed “Mr. Chung” through a corridor and out into the back of the restaurant.
Behind the restaurant, there were a series of heavy-mesh plasteel cages, emitting a chorus of hissing. Three Mardukans stood by one of the cages, beside a door which led from it into an enclosed circular run, wearing heavy leather armor and carrying spears, two of them long, one short.
“There are several meat animals on Marduk,” Roger said, walking over to a Mardukan who looked old for some reason and held a long case. “But for various reasons, we tend to serve one called atul. Humans on Marduk call them damnbeasts.”
He opened the case and withdrew a really beautiful sword, fine folded steel, looking something like a thicker bladed katana.
“There’s a local ordinance against firearms,” Roger said, “so we have to take a more personal approach to slaughtering. In the jungle, and here, they use spears—rather long ones. Or a sword, for the more . . . adventurous. And there’s a reason they’re called damnbeasts.”
What entered the run when one of the Mardukans opened the gate was the nastiest animal Catrone had ever seen. Three meters of teeth and claws, rippling in black-and-green stripes. It was low-slung and wide, six-legged, with a heavily armored head and shoulders. It darted into the light and looked at the humans on the other side of the run’s mesh. Catrone could see the logic running through its head, and wondered just how smart the thing was.
One of the Mardukans with one of the long spears stabbed downward, but the thing moved aside like a cobra and caught at the Mardukan with the other long spear. Its jaws slammed shut on the Mardukan’s leg with a clearly audible clop, and it tossed the three-meter-tall ET aside as if he were no heavier than a feather. It whipped around the circular run, watching the two remaining spearmen with the same feral intelligence, then turned and leapt at the fence.
The plasteel held it for a moment, then the half-ton-plus beast was up and onto the sagging fence, facing the ring of former diners, who suddenly looked likely to become dinner, instead.
“Okay, this is just not on,” Roger said. “Higher fences are clearly in order.”
He sprang forward as Catrone wondered what in hell the young idiot was about. The ex-Marine was torn between training, which told him to put himself between the prince and the threat, and simple logic, which said he’d last barely an instant and do no damned good at all. Not to mention making people wonder why he’d risked his life for a businessman. Instead, he moved in front of Sheila, noting that Despreaux had taken a combat stance and was shaking her head at the prince’s action as well. But she also wasn’t blocking him, which was interesting.
The beast scrambled higher, rolling the fence over with its weight until the plasteel collapsed almost completely. Then it was outside the run, turned to the diners, and charged.
What happened was almost too fast for even Tomcat’s trained eyes to follow, but he caught it. The prince slashed downwards with the sword, striking the beast on the tip of the nose and turning it ever so slightly. A quick flash back, and the sword ran across its eyes, blinding it. Now sightless, it continued straight ahead, just past the prince’s leg, and the last slash—full forehand—caught it under the neck, where it was partially unprotected. The blade sliced up and outward, neatly severing its neck, and the thing slid to a stop in the dirt of the slaughter yard, its shoulder just brushing the prince’s leg.
The prince had never moved from his spot. He’d taken one step for the final slash, but that was it.
Bloody hell.
The crowd which had followed them was applauding politely—probably thinking it was all part of the demonstration—as the prince flicked the sword to clear it of blood. The movement, Catrone noticed, was an unthinking one, a reflex, as if the prince had done it so many times it was as natural as breathing. He began an automatic sheathing maneuver, just as obviously an old habit, then stopped and walked across to the old Mardukan, who handed him a cloth to complete the cleaning of the blade. He said something quietly and put the clean sword back in the case while the headless monster lashed its tail in reflex, still twitching and clawing. Catrone sincerely doubted that Roger had learned that technique working on those things in a run.
Bloody damned hell.
“Is that what we’re having for supper?” one of the audience asked as the two uninjured Mardukans dragged the thing away. The injured one was already on his feet, saying something in Mardukan that had to be swearing. The questioner was a woman, and she looked pretty green.
“Oh, we don’t serve only atul,” Roger said, “although the liver analog is quite good with kolo beans—rather like fava beans—and a nice light chianti. There’s also coll fish. We serve the smaller, coastal variety, but it turns out they grow up to fifty meters in length in open waters.”
“That’s huge,” a man said.
“Yes, rather. Then there’s basik. That’s what the Mardukans call humans, as well, because they’re small, pinkish bipedal creatures that look just a bit like humans. They’re basically Mardukan rabbits. My Mardukans refer to themselves as the Basik’s Own—bit of a joke, really. Then there’s roast suckling damnbeast. Admittedly, it’s the most expensive item on the menu, but it’s quite good.”
“Why is it so expensive?” Sheila asked.
“Well, that’s because of how it’s gathered,” Roger said, smiling at her in a kindly fashion. “You see, the damnbeasts—that’s those—” he added, jerking his thumb at the head which was still lying on the ground, “they lair in rocky areas in the jungle. They dig dens with long tunnels to get to them, low and wide, like they are. They dig them, by the way, because they, in turn, are preyed upon by the atul-grack.”
“The what?” Sheila asked.
“Atul-grack,” Roger repeated. “Looks pretty much like an atul, but about the size of an elephant.”
“Oh, my . . .” the first woman whispered.
“Obviously, atul-grack are one of the hazards of hunting on Marduk,” Roger continued. “But to return to the damnbeasts. One of the parents, usually the female—the larger of the two—always stays in the lair. So to get to the suckling damnbeast, someone has to crawl into the lair after it. It’s very dark, and there’s always an elbow in the tunnel near the den, where water gathers. So, generally, right after you crawl through the water, holding your breath, Momma,” he gestured towards the pens again, “is waiting for you. You have, oh, about half a second to do something about that. One of my hunters suggests long, wildly uncontrolled bursts from a very heavy bead pistol, that being the only thing you can get into the den. You might have noticed they’re armored on the front, however. Sometimes the bead pistol doesn’t stop them. Atul hunters cannot get life insurance.
“And even if you do manage to kill Momma, there’s a problem. The atul dig their tunnels about as wide and high as they are. So you have to . . . get past the defending atul. Generally using a vibroknife. But you’re not done yet. Suckling atul range in size from about the size of a housecat to the size of a bobcat, and they trend towards the upper end of that range. There are usually six to eight of them, and they’re generally hungry and look at the hunter as just more food. And, just as a final minor additional problem, you have to bring them out alive.” Roger grinned at the group and shook his head. “So, please, when you look at the price for roast suckling damnbeast, keep all of that in mind. I don’t pay my hunters enough as it is.”
“Have you ever done that?” Sheila asked quietly as they were walking back to the table.
“No,” Roger admitted. “I’ve never hunted suckling atul. I’m rather large to fit into the tunnel.”
“Oh.”
“The only time I’ve ever hunted suckling, it was an atul-grack.”
After dinner, “Shara” took Sheila to show her some of the interesting exhibits they’d brought back from Marduk, leaving Roger and Catrone over coffee.
“I missed this,” Roger said.
“I still say this is a lousy spot for a private conversation,” Tomcat countered.
“It is, it is. It’s also the best place I’ve got, though. What do I have to do to convince you to side with us?”
“You can’t,” Catrone sighed. “And demonstrations of bravado aren’t going to help. Yes, you have some people—some good people—who apparently think you’ve changed. Maybe you have. You were certainly more than willing to put yourself in harm’s way. Too willing, really. If that thing had gotten you, your plan would have been all over.”
“It was . . . reflex,” Roger said, and made an almost wistful face. Tomcat had had a rather serious drink of wine after the “demonstration,” but he’d noticed that Roger hadn’t even appeared to have the shakes.
“Reflex,” the prince repeated, “learned in a hard school, as I mentioned. I’m having to ride a fine line. On the one hand, I know I’m the indispensable man, but some chances—such as meeting with you—have to be taken. As to the atul . . . I was the only person there who was armed and knew how to take one out. Even if it had gotten to me, I’d probably have survived. And . . . it’s not the first time I’ve faced an atul with nothing but a sword. A very hard school, Sergeant Major. One that also taught me that you can’t do everything by yourself. I need you, Sergeant Major. The Empire needs you. Desperately.”
“I said it once, and I repeat: I’m out of the Empire-saving business.”
“That’s it? Just that?” Roger demanded, and not even his formidable self-control could quite hide his amazement.