Trekmaster. James B. Johnson
King said, “and a fine to you, one hundred Shepherd unit coins, or the equivalent, to the orphanage fund of your ethnarchy.” He glanced at the herald. “See to it.” He’d conveniently ignored pointing out that lawyers somehow manage to turn into legislators and constitution-writers; besides making money, what lawyers like to do most is tell people what to do and how to do it.
TJ sighed. Wouldn’t they ever learn? Make a legal nuisance of yourself and lose your case, you pay heavy. Nowadays, most people were certain of themselves and their cases before they petitioned the King.
The man had not moved.
“Out,” said the King.
As the man hesitated, two Gyrenes moved forward and he sullenly turned and stalked off.
“Who’s next?” asked the King.
This time the jester didn’t rest between petitioners. In a whirl, he cartwheeled across the floor and partway up the open center aisle.
A woman had stepped out of the crowd at the herald’s signal and was walking down the center lane.
As she reached the front line of spectators, the jester spun past her rudely, and his feet, swinging high, intercepted an object flying over her shoulder.
The knife clattered against a ridged column and fell within an arm’s length of the King.
The jester continued his cartwheel and slammed into a bearded man. The man tried to turn and flee, but somehow got tangled up with the jester. Before anyone could realize what had happened, two Gyrenes leaped into the fray.
The jester picked himself up ruefully and bounded to the King’s side. Other palace guards immediately surrounded them. The crowd found its voice and started with a buzz and ended with a conglomeration of voices and queries. The Gyrenes dragged off the assailant.
“Silence,” commanded the King. The hall fell immediately quiet, yet an air of expectancy remained. “Get on with business,” the King told the herald.
And the jester began tumbling around the room again.
After the court session, the King stood in an outer chamber to his suite of offices talking to the herald and his administrative assistant. “Any new NOPEs?”
The entire palace knew the King’s fondness for buzz words. NOPE was an acronym for “number one problem entity,” meaning immediate problems. So what if it was a cutesy acronym? He’d changed ARSE, for Ancillary Revenue Service Extension, to RSE, hadn’t he?
“No, sire,” said the herald’s exec.
“Then leave us, I have paperwork to do.”
“Yes, Sire,” Alfred the herald glanced at Camp with more respect than usual. Both knew what “paperwork” meant. The King only signed. He almost never read. Of course, the last time a mistake had been made and the King had signed the order unknowingly was perhaps two years ago. And those responsible were still guarding isolated mountain passes against nonexistent enemies—or were they the ones cleaning latrines for the palace guard? Regardless, administrative efficiency was always at its peak in TJ’s palace.
“Let’s go into my office,” said the King.
As they entered, Camp said, “Sure, boss.”
“Thanks,” said the King, acknowledging Camp’s swift action in the throne room.
“It was my job.” Camp closed the door behind him and then collapsed on a leather couch. The King pulled a bottle from a plain cabinet and poured two wide-mouthed glasses almost full. He took one over to Delancy Camp and handed it to him.
“Any speculation as to who or why?” TJ took a long drink.
Camp gulped his sour mash and shook his head. “A possible. But I’ll wager the commandant will arrive within ten minutes with all the information wrung out of the assassin—but I doubt we’ll learn anything of substance.”
“So do I. Probably a disgruntled fellow lawyer.”
“Or an opponent of joining the Fed,” said Delancy Camp pointedly.
“Summer, it’s come to that, has it?” With his strange sense of humor, the King was wont to refer to Delancy as “Summer, my aide de camp.”
“TJ, it’s gonna get a hell of a lot worse.” He drained his glass and rose to refill it.
“I shan’t turn back. Goddamn, Summer, indoor plumbing, real doctors and medicine, ground and air travel? Give that up? Hell, no.”
Camp shrugged. “It’s your life. Go ahead and throw it away.”
“Measured against those benefits, my life is nothing.”
“Look, TJ, you pulled this planet together and up almost single-handedly. You hold it together now by the mere force of your presence and personality. There is much to measure your life against.”
The King rubbed his forehead with his left hand. “You do not say the words. Summer; you imply Prince Michale is not yet capable of donning the robes of power.”
“Of filling your shoes, TJ. He is a difficult one to figure,” he added diplomatically.
“Damn it, I know that.”
“It was in my thoughts, Your Majesty, to punch the button on that secret transponder and have one Jean-Claude Lafitte Fitzroy pay us a visit. A few protective devices only.”
“A million Fed credits worth of gold just to turn on a red light in a starship?”
Camp handed the King a refilled glass. “There are relay satellites throughout occupied space. He would receive the summons almost immediately. Or as fast as a ship could travel the distance—as I understand it. And the cost would be more than the million. The million is just to have Fitzroy show up here in response to our call. The merchandise would also be prohibitively expensive. Where else could we buy it? Without political connections, smuggling doesn’t pay in the long run. Except in death from the Federation Navy.”
“Too expensive,” said TJ. And damned the Federation system that kept Bear Ridge isolated until tested, passed and accepted into the Fed.
“You can afford it. Have Reginald skim a little more off the top. Or put an extra shift on that secret gold mine. We’ve got enough condemned prisoners stored up.”
“The idea is distasteful to me.”
“So is dying, boss.”
“Your point. We’ll see.”
“You don’t want to push that button and call Fitzroy because you’re afraid the Fed might detect the smuggler’s ship and thus jeopardize your chance at the Council seat, no?”
“The thought had crossed my mind. Break their foolish rules and we are quarantined for ten years and our entry into the Fed postponed for at least that long.” The King slumped into his high back chair behind a cluttered desk. He propped his feet on a clear space. Camp leaned back on the couch’s arm rest and set his glass on his chest.
“We ought to retire,” the King continued. “I’m getting too old for these games. And you aren’t getting any younger either, Summer. Why don’t you find a nice girl and settle down on your lands? I’ll draft someone else for this job.”
“Hell, TJ.”
“Yeah, I know. Me, too. And thanks. But you can be commandant, or chief of staff, High Minister, I’ll think of something. You’ve already got a couple of thousand hectares of prime grape lands. I’ll stack a few titles on and make it official.”
“If I ever find a nice girl, I’ll think about it. And I ain’t so old either, a mere decade less than you!”
“Yes, but you’ve packed a lot into those years.”
“Had a ball, too. And I somehow have the notion that we ain’t done raising hell yet either.”