South of the Ecliptic. Donald Ph.D. Ladew
Krasnieven looked around nervously. There was no way to escape.
"Let's not dwell on that, Vaslov. My interest is now. You have been useful over the years. But, your advice regarding General Sir Aubrey Piehl is flawed. You've exhibited bad judgment, failed to stay current.
"Two nights ago I attended the King's birthday ball. Who do you suppose was there?" Krasnieven sat head hanging like a whipped child.
"Right; Sir Aubrey Jerrad Piehl, ex-Brigadier General of the Mars Legion, with a senior aide. They both looked fit, and very much in the good graces of the King. Both were in full dress uniform, Krasnieven. Do you understand what that means? Full Dress Uniform! Can you comprehend the significance of that? Do you even begin to sense the danger? It has always been one of your failings, Vaslov. You cannot grasp the long view. Can you imagine what might happen if an arrangement, an alliance were established between Piehl and the King?"
Trone was motionless. He looked toward Krasnieven but not at him.
"There are probably thirty to forty thousand ex-Legionnaires spread over the Western Arm. If Piehl sent a general call to them to rally to his standard would there be one who wouldn't answer the call? No, of course not. They would come.” He stared at Krasnieven for a long count. “I see you are beginning to get the message.
"Take it a step further. Consider Blair Prince, Colonel Blair Prince and the missing First Brigade. He was Piehl's best friend. We've done our best to destroy Prince through the News-Comp, but the fact remains, despite the reports of those liars and optimists in the Imperial Navy, he's never been found nor have any of his men been taken alive. That's ten thousand marines, eight or ten capital ships and as many support vessels. What common factor do you perceive?"
When Krasnieven opened his mouth to answer, Trone raised his hand like a weapon ready to strike.
"Don't answer, I don't need more stupidity. Piehl, Prince, the men of the Legion survived. Yes indeed," he said, looking inward at something only he could see. "They are good at that. Should Piehl and Prince get together, with the support of the King and those parts of the Navy I cannot control, all that I have worked for could be destroyed.
"I tried to penetrate the senior staff of the Legion for fifteen years. I did not succeed. The King made it plain at his birthday ball that he holds Piehl in the highest favor. I don't like this situation at all. I strongly suggest you spend less time with those wretched women of yours, and more on the affairs of Mr. Aubrey Piehl."
Trone spoke with grinding intensity, pinning Krasnieven with his eyes like a snake beneath a forked stick.
"Longevity in my service depends on utility. If you wish to have a future, I recommend you pay more attention to business. Do you understand me, Vaslov?"
A sheen of oily sweat covered Krasnieven's vice ridden face. "Yes, Sir Claren, I understand. I'll get more people on Piehl. You'll know every move he makes."
"That would be good, Vaslov. For instance, I have it from one of my people inside the palace the King intends to contact Piehl for an assignment of some kind, and that First Princess Iralane is involved. I wouldn't take it amiss if some kind of accident happened to Piehl, or the Princess for that matter.
"I understand, Sir Claren, leave it to me."
"I will, for now, Vaslov. Only for now. Great events are imminent. My destiny hangs in the balance. You know what's happening out on the Rim. I was distressed to hear rumors of what's out there circulating around the port area. The last thing I need at this point is that self-righteous, ex-Legionnaire meddling in my affairs. Remember this, Krasnieven, and remember it well. I do not reward error, nor do I forgive fools."
Vaslov felt as though he'd just been sentenced to death, then given a temporary stay of execution. His perception of the situation was accurate.
"That is all, Krasnieven, leave."
Krasnieven got up slowly; a fearful man, an evil man, with an indefinite future. He faded into the heavy blackness of the room knowing his absence wouldn't be noticed.
Trone brooded silently, his pale eyes half closed. Then, as though coming alive a piece at a time, the fingers of one hand lying motionless on the stone desk began to tap out a slow, monotonous rhythm and the flaccid muscles on one side of his face twitched asynchronously. His voice, when it passed his thin bloodless lips, was a piercing wail, penetrating to the furthest corners of the ancient hall. He sang! It was a song of madness and obsession.
"The King is dead, the King is dead, God save the King."
Finally he stood and walked to a passageway in a shadowy corner behind his delusory throne.
Chapter 3
A week passed. Piehl had forgotten the King's birthday ball. There were more immediate problems, like eating and paying dock fees. They hadn't turned up anything in the way of a job, not even a lead.
Regent's planet wasn't some rogue's lair out on the Rim where rules were non-existent and things could be “worked out” with the port authorities. If it hadn't been one of the best places to get cargo, they would have left years before.
Flex left the ship earlier in the morning to check on something. Piehl was still aboard overhauling the portside gyro. When Flex buzzed, Piehl was sitting amidst a pile of parts, systematically going over each assembly with a tester, trying to find out why the damn thing insisted they fly upside down at the odd moment.
Piehl was whimsical, but trying to land a twenty thousand ton merchant inverted went far beyond whimsy.
The Comm system buzzed again and Piehl flipped it to receive.
"Captain, I have something in the way of business. How soon can you get to the Outworlds Bar?" He sounded excited.
"Thirty minutes, Flex. I'm sitting in a pile of what use to be the port gyro. Now I know why they have electro-techs in the service. This stuff is too damned complex for a simple-minded ex-general. It's going to take me a while to get the damn thing back together."
"Right, Captain. As soon as you can, I think we have a possible job."
Piehl left the ship a half hour later and made the mistake of looking back. Poor old Goddard was a wreck. They bought her third hand three hard years earlier.
The old Gordon Carry-All's weren't that great to start with. There wasn't one square centimeter of surface unscarred, and the replacement plates made it look like a badly designed chess board. Two hundred and fifty meters long, she was shaped like a ugly torus; with a hundred meter cylindrical drive unit on one end, the old girl was bone ugly.
Piehl sighed. Nothing to be done about it.
He made his way through the hurly-burly of the port towards the Outworlds Bar. He and Flex used it as an unofficial office. When Piehl reached the bar, Flex was sitting slouched in one of the relaxors sipping spiced coffee.
Piehl noticed an old ex-Imperial marine crashed out on a bench in the back. He knew him; they had shared a mug from time to time. He was a good man come on hard times. The owner, an ex-legionnaire, was off somewhere on his own business.
Flex smiled. "Morning, sir. Coffee's fresh."
"Don't get up, “Ensign”. You shouldn't trouble yourself to get a cup for your captain," Piehl said sarcastically.
"Oh, good, sir. I'm feeling mellow this morning. Her grace, Lady Jane Esterlys was most solicitous of my health and well-being when she discovered I was put in prison by the nasty old Imperial Navy."
"Really? Now how did she find that out, Flight Major?" Piehl had a look of wry amusement on his face.
"Oh, I told her of course. However I forgot to tell her I got out three years ago, and somehow she got the impression I was only just released and that I must therefore be feeling the pangs of confinement. She was most kind and tender regarding my...well being," Flex sighed.
"Flex, you are without conscience. Why these women find you worth their time I will never