Throne of Stars

by David Weber

  “No, sir,” the gang leader said with a wince.

  “You did come to an agreement though, right?” Siminov said quietly. “I’d hate to think you’re losing your touch.”

  “Yes, sir. And you got your cut, sir.”

  “I’m sure. But not a cut of the action. Very well, you can go. I’ll handle the rest.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The gang leader backed out of the office, bowing jerkily. “Thank you.”

  Siminov rubbed his chin in thought after the gang leader’s departure. The fool had a point; this group had some serious muscle. Mardukans were few off-planet, and of that few, quite a number of them worked as “muscle” in one organization or another, but always in tiny numbers. He didn’t have any, and he’d never seen more than one of them at a time, yet this guy, whoever he was, had at least fifty. Maybe more. And they all had that indefinable air of people who could be unpleasantly testy.

  Which meant the direct approach to enforcing his rules was out. But all that meant was that he’d need to use subtlety, and that was okay with him. Subtle was his middle name.

  “Captain Kjerulf,” Eleanora O’Casey said as she shook his hand. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

  They were in a fast-food establishment in the low-grav portion of Moonbase. She noticed that he showed no trace of awkwardness moving in the reduced gravity.

  Kjerulf really did look a lot like Gronningen, she thought. Same size, just a shade over two meters, same massive build, same close-cropped blond hair, blue eyes, and square jaw. But he was older and, she could tell by his eyes, wiser. Probably what Gronningen would have been like if he’d had the time to grow up.

  “There are people who handle supplemental supplies, Ms. Nejad,” the captain observed, shaking his head as he sat down across the table from her. “I’m afraid I can’t really help you in that.”

  His casually apologetic, meeting-you-to-be-polite tone was perfect, but he knew the meeting wasn’t about “supplementary supplies.” Not with that “roses are red and sauerkraut’s yellow” message header.

  “I realize that this isn’t, strictly speaking, your area of responsibility, Captain,” Eleanora said. “But you are a very influential individual in Home Fleet, and the Mardukan comestibles we can supply would be a welcome change for your spacers and Marines.”

  “I don’t handle procurement, Ms. Nejad,” Kjerulf said in a slightly cooler tone, and frowned.

  “Perhaps. But I’m sure you have some influence,” she said. “Left. For now.”

  He’d opened his mouth to reply before she finished speaking. Now he closed it, and his eyes narrowed. With Adoula replacing everyone who hadn’t been bought and paid for, she had a point. But not one that a comestibles supplier would make. It might be one that . . . someone else would make, but whether that was good or bad would depend upon who she represented. On the other hand, Marinau had ended up as a sergeant major in the Empress’ Own, he knew that. So—

  “Perhaps,” he said. “A few of the captains might accept a suggestion or two. But that would depend entirely upon the quality of the . . . supplies.”

  Eleanora considered the captain’s background carefully, and hoped like hell that he’d had the same general upbringing as Gronningen.

  “Some of our atul,” she said, quietly, “are as moist as a fatted calf, Captain.”

  Kjerulf sat there for a moment, his face unchanging. Perhaps too unchanging.

  “Impossible,” he said finally.

  “No, really,” Eleanora replied. “They may be predators, but they’re just as tasty—tasty enough even an Armaghan satanist would swear by them. I think you’d like one. They’re vicious and deadly to their natural enemies, yes, but they provide a very fine . . . main course.”

  Kjerulf reached forward and picked a handful of fries off of her plate. He stuffed them into his mouth and masticated slowly and thoughtfully.

  “I’ve never had . . . atul,” he said. “And I’ve heard it’s not very good, to be honest. And rare. To the point of extinction.”

  He dusted his fingers against each other to get the salt off, and looked at them distastefully. Finally, he wiped the grease off with a napkin.

  “Your information is out of date,” Eleanora replied. “They’re very much alive, trust me.”

  “And you have them in-system, where they could be delivered promptly?” Kjerulf asked, still wiping his hands.

  “Yes,” Eleanora said. “And other fleets have added them to their supply list and found the taste quite acceptable. Much better than they’d expected from some other people’s reports.”

  She picked up a fry of her own and squirted ketchup from a bulb down its length. As she bit delicately into the fry, her other hand squirted out the word “O’Casey” on her plate. Then she picked up another fry and wiped out the ketchup with it.

  “I take it you’re a senior member of this business venture?” Kjerulf said.

  “I’m in charge of marketing and sales.” Eleanora finished eating the fry which had erased her name. “And policy advising.”

  “And other fleets have found these supplies satisfactory?”

  “Absolutely,” Eleanora replied. “I want you to understand, Captain, that those people you can convince to try this new taste sensation will be in on the ground floor. We’re planning on being a big name in the business here in the Sol System. Very soon.”

  “I’m sure you are,” Kjerulf said dryly. “There are, however, many competitors in any business. And . . .” He shrugged and frowned.

  “We realize that,” Eleanora replied. “And, of course, there’s the question of monopoly markets,” she added, having thought long and hard about how not to use the words “Empress” and “Palace” in the conversation. “It’s never easy to get started when someone else controls access to the critical markets. But we intend to break those monopolies, Captain, and free those markets. It’s central to our business plan. Depending upon the quality of the businesses we find participating in the present monopolies, we might be interested in a buyout. That would depend upon the quality of those businesses’ management, of course. We’ve heard they may have some internal problems.”

  “And your competitors?” Kjerulf said, puzzling over that rather complicated metaphor string.

  “Our competitors are going to find out just how deadly to their future marketing prospects our ability to supply genuine atul really is.”

  “How are your projections?” Kjerulf asked after another pause.

  “I’ll admit that sales to Home Fleet are a big part of our expansion plans. But they’re not essential. Especially since other fleets are already in our supply chain. But I’d hate to have any bickering between the various fleets’ supply officers, and sales to Home Fleet would be very helpful. With them, our projections are excellent. Without them, they’re . . . fair.”

  “I couldn’t guarantee sales to the whole fleet,” Kjerulf said. “I could make suggestions to some of the captains, but my boss—” He shrugged.

  “During the expansion phase, your boss won’t be an issue,” Eleanora said coldly. “And if our expansion is successful, he won’t become an issue, either. Ever.”

  “Good,” Kjerulf said, and showed her his first smile. It was a little cold and thin, but it was a smile. She’d seen Gronningen smile that same way so many times it made her hurt. But, on the other hand, it also made her fiercely glad. Things were looking up.

  Three days had passed since O’Casey’s return from Moonbase. And the pace was picking up. Which explained why none of Roger’s human companions were on-site when the visitors arrived at Marduk House.

  The human in the lead was a pipsqueak, Rastar thought. The two guys following him were pretty big, for humans, but Rastar towered over them, and Fain and Erkum Pol were watching from the back door of the restaurant. One of the Diasprans was ostentatiously pitching live basik to the atul, for that matter; that usually tended to bring salesmen down a peg. But this guy wasn’t backing up. One of his “heavies
” looked a little green—glancing over his shoulder as one of the big female atul crashed into the side of her cage, ignoring the squealing basik as she tried to reach the Diaspran, instead—but the leader didn’t even blink.

  “It’s really quite important that I speak with Mr. Chung,” he said. “Important to him, that is.”

  “Isn’t here,” Rastar said, thickening his accent. He’d actually gotten quite fluent in Imperial, but the “big dumb barb” routine seemed the way to go.

  “Perhaps you could call him?” the man suggested. “He really will wish to speak to me.”

  “Long way,” Rastar replied, crossing all four arms. “Come later.”

  “Perhaps you could screen him. I’ll wait.”

  Rastar stared at him for a moment, then looked over his shoulder.

  “Call Mr. Chung,” he said deliberately speaking in High Krath. “See what he wants me to do. Off the top of my horns, I’d say kick their asses and feed them to the atul.” He turned back in time to see the leader twitch his face. So, they did have updated Mardukan language packs, did they? Interesting. He hoped Fain had noticed.

  “Roger,” Despreaux said, leaning in through the door to his office. “Krindi’s on the com. We’ve got some heavies of some sort who want to see ‘Mr. Chung.’ They’re pretty insistent.”

  “Crap.” Roger glanced at Catrone. “Suggestions?”

  They’d been refining the plan for the Palace assault and looking over the reports from VR training. So far, it was looking good. Casualties in the models, especially among the unarmored Vasin and Diasprans who were to make the initial assault, were persistently high, and Roger didn’t like that one bit, but the plan should work.

  “Play for time,” Catrone advised. “Sounds like you’re getting shaken down again.”

  “It’s times like this I wish Poertena were around,” Roger said. “Nimashet, rustle up Kosutic. Let’s go see what they want. And tell Rastar to let them wait inside.”

  The visitor was dressed in an obviously expensive suit of muted bronze acid-silk, not the sort of garish streetwear Roger had anticipated. The two heavies with him, both smaller than Roger and nothing compared to the Mardukans, were sampling some Mardukan food at a nearby table. Their culinary explorations didn’t prevent them from keeping a close eye on their surroundings, where Mardukans—most of them Diaspran infantry—were setting up for the evening. Erkum Pol and another Diaspran, in turn, were keeping an eye on them. Not at all unobtrusively.

  “Augustus Chung.” Roger held out his hand. He’d found a tailor who was accustomed to handling large customers, and he was dressed less formally, although probably at even greater expense, than his visitor.

  “Ezequiel Chubais,” the visitor said, standing up to take Roger’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Chung.”

  “And what can I do for you, Mr. Chubais?” Roger sat down, waving Despreaux and Kosutic to chairs on either side of his own.

  “You’ve got a nice place here,” Chubais said, sitting back down himself. “Very classy. We’re both businessman, though, and we’re both aware that the restaurant isn’t all the business you’re conducting.”

  “And your point, Mr. Chubais?”

  “My point—more importantly, my boss’s point—is that there’s a protocol about these things. You don’t just set up a laundering operation in somebody else’s territory, Mr. Chung. It’s not done.”

  “We’re already paying our squeeze, Mr. Chubais,” Roger said coldly. “One shakedown is all you get.”

  “You’re paying your rent for operating a restaurant, Mr. Chung,” Chubais pointed out. “Not a laundering operation. There’s a percentage on that; one you neglected to pay. You’ve heard the term ‘penalties and fines,’ right?”

  “And if we’re disinclined to acquiesce to your . . . request for them?”

  “Then we will, with great reluctance, have to take appropriate action.” Chubais shrugged. “You’ve got a lots of muscle, Mr. Chung. Enough that it’s a big question in our minds if you’re just setting up a laundering operation, or if you’re contemplating something a bit more . . . acquisitive. My boss doesn’t like people horning in on his territory. He can get very unpleasant about it.”

  “We’re not horning in on his territory,” Roger said softly. “We’ve set up a quiet little operation that has so little to do with your boss that you wouldn’t believe it.”

  “Nonetheless,” Chubais said. “It looks like you’ve pushed through right on two million credits. The percentage on that would be two-fifty kay Penalties for failure to associate us with the operation, and failure to pay previously, are five hundred kay.”

  “Out of the question,” Roger snapped. He paused and thought about it, frowning. “We’ll ante up the percentage, but the penalties are out of the question.”

  “The penalties are nonnegotiable.” Chubais stood and nodded to his guards. “We’ll expect full payment within three days.”

  “Chubais, tell your boss that he really does not want to push this,” Roger said very softly as he stood, as well. “It would be a very bad idea. Possibly the last one he ever has. He has no idea who he’s pocking with.”

  “Pocking?” Chubais repeated, and one cheek twitched in a grin. “Well, Mr. Chung, I don’t know where you come from, but you’re in our territory now, and it’s apparent that you have no idea who you are . . . pocking with. If you fail to pay, however, you’ll find out.”

  He nodded, then left, trailed by his heavies.

  “Roger,” Despreaux said quietly, “our next transfer from our . . . friends isn’t due until next week. We don’t have seven hundred and fifty thousand credits available.”

  “I know.” Roger frowned. “Kosutic, I know everyone’s already on alert, but pass the word. They’ll probably try to hit us either at the restaurant or the warehouse. I’d guess they’ll try to stage something at the restaurant, probably when it’s operating. Push the perimeter out a little bit.”

  “Will do,” the sergeant major acknowledged. “It’s going to play hell with our training schedule, though.”

  “Needs must.” Roger shrugged. “If it was easy, it wouldn’t need us, would it?”

  “He was remarkably . . . unresponsive,” Chubais said.

  “Not surprising.” Siminov touched his lips with a napkin. He was having dinner in his sole “legitimate” establishment and enjoying a very nice pork dish in wine sauce. “He’s got enough muscle that we’d have to bring in every gang we have. And then we’d probably bounce.”

  “It would cause him a fair bit of trouble,” Chubais pointed out. “Cops would be all over it.”

  “And they’d find a perfectly legitimate restaurant that was having gang problems.” Siminov frowned. “Maybe they’d harass him a little bit, but not enough to shut him down. No, I want what’s mine. And we’re going to get it.”

  “Sergeant Major,” Captain Kjerulf said, nodding as the NCO entered the secure room.

  “Captain,” Sergeant Major Brailowsky said, returning the nod.

  “Have a seat,” Kjerulf invited, looking around at the four ships’ captains already present. “I’ve had my own people sweep the room. The posted agenda is readiness training and the next cycle of inspections. That is not, in fact, accurate.”

  No one seemed particularly astonished by his last sentence, and he turned back to Sergeant Major Brailowsky.

  “Sergeant Major, do you know Sergeant Major Eva Kosutic?” he asked coldly.

  “Yes, Sir,” the sergeant major said, his face hard. “She was in my squad back when we were both privates. I’ve served with her . . . several times.”

  “So what do you think about the idea of her being involved in a plot against the Empress?” Kjerulf asked.

  “She’d cut her own throat first,” Brailowsky said without a trace of hesitation, his voice harsh. “Same with Armand Pahner. I knew him, too. Both as one of my senior NCOs and as a company commander. I was first sergeant of Alpha of the Three-Four-Two when he had Brav
o Company. Sir, they don’t come any more loyal.”

  “And I would have said the same of Commodore Chan, wouldn’t you?” Kjerulf said, looking around at the other captains. One of them was . . . looking a tad shaky. The other three were stone-faced.

  “Yes, Sir,” Brailowsky said. “Sir, permission to speak?”

  “You’re not a recruit, Brailowsky,” Kjerulf said, smiling faintly.

  “I think I am,” the sergeant major said. “That’s what this is about, right? Recruiting?”

  “Yes,” Kjerulf said.

  “In that case, Sir, I’ve known half the NCOs in Bravo of Bronze,” Brailowsky said, “and I know what they thought of the Prince. And of the Empress. Between the two, there was just no comparison. That Roger was a bad seed, Sir. There was no way they were going to help him try to take the Throne.”

  “What if I told you they’d changed their minds?” Kjerulf asked. “That while you’re right about their nonparticipation in the so-called coup attempt, they’d come to think rather better of Roger than you do? That, in fact, they’re not all dead . . . and that he isn’t, either?”

  “You know that?” Captain (Senior-Grade) Julius Fenrec asked. He was the CO of the carrier Gloria, and he’d been listening to the conversation with a closed, set expression.

  “I met someone who identified herself as Eleanora O’Casey,” Kjerulf admitted with a shrug. “It could have been a setup to try to get me to tip my hand, but I don’t think so. Can’t prove it, of course . . . yet. But she says Roger is alive, and she used the parable of the prodigal son, which I think has more than one level of meaning. She also slipped to me that Eva Kosutic is alive, as well. And fully in the plan. I don’t know about Pahner.”

  “That’s not much to go on,” Captain Atilius of the Minotaur said nervously.

  “No,” Kjerulf agreed, his face hard. “but I’ve seen the confidential reports of what’s going on in the Palace, and I don’t like it one damned bit.”