OF HEROES AND GOATS
When Mahoney stepped into his boss’s kitchen, the Eternal Emperor was singing at the top of his voice, keeping time with an enormous cleaver as he whacked away at a dead animal.
At least he hoped it was dead.
“I think I’m going to Kathmandu,” the Emperor warbled as he slammed the cleaver down—whack!
“That’s really, really where I’m going to…”
Whack!
“If I ever get out of here…”
Whack!
“That’s what I’m going to do…”
Whack!
“K-k-k-k-k-k… ”
Whack! Whack! Whack!
And with the last whack what appeared to be a bloody leg came loose from the skinned carcass and the Emperor brandished it aloft—voice so out of tune it was like being stabbed in the ear—as he shouted:
“Kathmandu! K-k-k-k-k-k Kathmandu!”
He spotted Mahoney. Waving the bloody leg at a stool drawn up to the butcher block counter, he said, “Pull up a pew, Ian and grab yourself a drink. Party’s just getting started.”
Ian helped himself to a slug of scotch, saw that the Emperor’s glass was empty and filled it.
With a gory hand, the Emperor raised his glass, “Confusion to our enemies,” he said.
Mahoney raised his glass: “Here’s to those who wish us well,” he said, “And those that don’t can go to hell.”
Laughing, the Emperor drowned his drink in one go. “My daddy always told me to never try to match toasts with an Irishman.”
“Wise man, your father, so he was,” Ian said as he refilled their classes.
Perching his hind end on the stool, he said, “Always happy to see you in a good mood, boss, that I am. But what’s brought on all this cheer? Did your Prime Minister keel over on the floor of Parliament, or something?”
“Oh, if only it were so,” the Emperor said.
He indicated the carcass on the table. It still wore its head and its pleading eyes seemed to follow Mahoney everywhere.
“Does look a bit like him, though, doesn’t he? With those pleading eyes you can almost hear him bleat.”
Mahoney laughed. “What happened, boss? Somebody trying to make a goat out of you, are they?”
“And then, some,” the Emperor said. “So much so that it inspired me to make Timbuktu goat curry out of them.”
He slapped the carcass. “Do us a favor, Ian, and toss the leftovers into the ice box. Thapa will be along later to collect them.”
Thapa was Havildar-Major Lalbahadur Thapa, head of the contingent of Gurkhas who were the Emperor’s personal bodyguards. Hailing from the kingdom of Nepal in Kathmandu, they had taken an oath to die, rather than to see the Emperor come to harm. The Emperor said they’d performed the same service for the British royal family for centuries.
Ian had only a vague idea who the British were. His boss was a fan of Elizabeth The First, who, in his view was the canniest monarch in human history.
Mahoney tossed a towel over the goat’s carcass to protect his clothes, hoisted it over his shoulder, and strode over to the gleaming temperature controlled fresher that the Emperor insisted on calling an ice box. Ian hadn’t the faintest idea why since there was never any ice inside.
The Emperor switched knives and started to expertly dissect the leg, then turn the choicest pieces into nearly identical cubes.
“Old Tanz stopped by a little while ago to tell tales on one of his zillionare buddies,” the Emperor said.
Old Tanz was Tanz Sullamora, the richest industrialist in the Empire who had his greedy fingers in every enterprise. He hated anyone nearly as rich as himself and loved to undermine them in the Emperor’s eyes by gossiping shamelessly about their private peccadilloes and disloyal actions.
In short, in Ian’s humble Irish opinion, he was the biggest ass kisser in the Empire, but he was a loyal ass kisser who would go to any extreme to please the Emperor.
“You know, with Tanz I have to keep a smile fixed on my face the whole time he’s talking,” the Emperor said.
He grimaced. “Sometimes it feels like my face is going to fall off. I can’t stand the son of a scrote, but like LBJ said, I’d rather he was inside my tent pissing out, than outside, pissing in.”
Ian hadn’t the foggiest who the Emperor was referring to, but this LBJ boyo sounded like a pretty savvy fellow.
He was always amazed how graceful the Emperor was in the kitchen. He seemed to be doing several things at once. Rolling the goat in spices and minced garlic; sprinkling the cubed meat with three fingers of sea salt; hooking a foot back to catch the lip of a broiler and checking the vegetables charring inside; turning back to add a few glugs of mustard oil to a heavy iron pot he called a Dutch oven; stirring in too many spices for Ian to identify, but as they cooked he definitely smelled fenugreek, chilies, and curry powder among other savory delights.
Oh, yeah, and more garlic. The Emperor loved his garlic. And Ian thought he saw his boss sprinkle in a sparing pinch or so of cumin. Then in went the goat, which he lovingly browned in the pot.
And all while he plotted the demise of his enemies with Ian.
“If you recall,” the Emperor said, “in our latest negotiations with the Tahn I eased a few of the sanctions I’d slapped on them with for being sneaky drakh heads.”
Mahoney shook his head. “And sorry I am that so much effort led to naught,” he said.
Ian had been part of those negotiations. The Tahn pulled every crooked trick in the book to get the upper hand in business negotiations. From price wars, to product dumping, to computer sabotage, and outright theft.
Only the Emperor’s iron grip on AM2 kept them at bay.
The sanctions came when Mahoney started getting reports of raids on AM2 depots on smaller worlds. Ian’s spies couldn’t get definite proof that the Tahn were behind the raids. Although the Tahn vehemently denied responsibility and blamed pirates, all signs pointed in their direction. Of course, pirates probably were involved. But Ian and the Emperor had no doubt they were pirates working for the Tahn.
Fed up, but cautious of appearing to be a bully by threatening military action, the Emperor imposed sanctions. Denying permits to trade with the Tahn, except for medical and other humanitarian goods and supplies.
Agricultural products and equipment were also sanctioned. The Tahn had the misfortune of settling worlds with sparse farming opportunities.
Plus, as the Emperor liked to tell Mahoney, “They’re just clotting lousy farmers. All warrior culture are like that. They look down on beings who till the soil and grow their own food. Manly men—and womanly women—like the Tahn took what they wanted and pressed the farmers into unproductive slave labor gangs.”
The sanctions were hard to police, but the Emperor kept squeezing until finally the Tahn were forced back to the negotiating tables. Although they still denied responsibility and blamed pirates, they made several crucial concessions in the areas of goods dumping, price fixing and industrial espionage.
The Emperor shrugged. “Of course, the reality is that sanctions cut two ways,” he said. “Your competitor is cut off from badly need goods, but at the same time, your companies at home are denied lucrative markets. So they all came crying and whining to me. Old Tanz being one the loudest and whiniest. Finally, I play Mr. Nice Guy. A role I’m not well suited for. I tell the Tahn I’ll give them another chance. And I ease up a bit.”
Snorting disgust, the Emperor turned back to his oven. “Better keep going, or I’ll burn the drakh out of the veggies.”
Grabbing a towel, he rescued the tray of nicely charred veggies from the oven. Mahoney noted that they mostly consisted of skinned tomatoes, peppers, red onions, ginger, garlic and green chilies. The Emperor popped them in a blender, flipped it on, whirred them to a smooth sauce, then dumped the whole thing into the Dutch oven with the goat.
Stirring the contents of the pot with a wooden spoon, he said, “Agriculture is one area I’m not going to budge on. Keep them hungry. And then turn up the heat.”
He popped on the lid. Adjusted the heat. Wiped his hands on a towel and perched on a stool.
“Hit me with another, Ian,” he said. “Goat currying and Tahn plotting is thirsty work.”
“Glad I am to oblige, boss,” Mahoney said.
While he fixed their drinks, the Emperor gestured to the side where pots and pans bubbled and squeaked, giving off delicious smells. “Got some jasmine rice and other good stuff going on over there,” he added. “And some nice Nepalese flat bread for dipping and scooping and other fun messy things.”
Ian’s belly rumbled. The smells had awakened the hunger beast in him.
“Douse it with Scotch,” the Emperor advised. “Makes it easier to hold out for dinner.”
Mahoney tossed off his scotch. Shuddered. Even so, he felt a little better.
He grimaced, “I’m better, that I am. But the cure like to have killed me.”
“So, back to where you came in,” the Emperor said. “Back to old Tanz Sullamora. Who was jumping up and down with joy about the sanctions being lifted. Well, imagine his surprise when his guys went to the Tahn with their order books out, and there were no takers.”
“That doesn’t make sense, boss,” Ian said. “Tanz mainly specializes in big ticket items. Like Kurosawa engines, prefab factories, parts for expensive machines. Those were among the first things we clamped down on.”
“Well, obviously the Tahn are getting those big tickets items elsewhere,” the Emperor said. “Some very foolish beings dared my wrath and went behind my back to supply the Tahn.”
A lot of questions that had been swirling around Mahoney’s brain suddenly found a few answers.
“Wichman!” he said. “So that’s what that piece of pig drakh has been up to.”
“What we’ve suspected all along,” the Emperor said, with a shrug. “Selling sanctioned goods to the enemy.”
“Forgive me for pointing out the obvious, Your Highness, but that’s a firing squad offense. Conspiring with the enemy. Why don’t we just pick the Wichmans up and put them on trial?”
The Emperor sighed. “Things have been ticking along pretty well, lately, Ian,” he said. “Longest period of peace since the damned Mueller Wars. The economy is humming along to the point where poor folks are moving up to the middle class, and the middle class is knocking on the doors of the new rich.
“By and large the public views my government as a big happy family, with yours truly as the benign patriarch. Dispensing favors to the deserving. Punishing the few malcontents—but only to bring them back into line, like prodigal sons.
“A sunny, Norman Rockwell portrait of love and loyalty.”
“Gotcha, boss,” Ian said.
Although he had no idea who that Rockwell boyo was, the Emperor’s meaning was clear. When the time came to shed the blood of the Emperor’s enemies, he didn’t want any spatter to foul that carefully created image.
“Bottom line,” the Emperor said, “I do not want a war with the Tahn at this time.”
Mahoney sighed. “It’s gonna come, boss,” he said. “Mark my words. Just a matter of time, so it is.”
“You are right in so many ways, Ian,” he said. “But right now let’s kick the can a little further down the road. Besides, as grim as things look now, I have certain irons in the fire that I’m betting will pay off in the near future. And we may be able to avoid war altogether.”
“Yessir,” Ian said.
He had his doubts, but in the Eternal Emperor’s long time at the diplomatic gaming table, he’d rolled sevens more often than was probable.
Meaning, when he placed his last bets the dice were likely to be loaded.
The Emperor started dishing out dinner, and the meal proved to be as heavenly as it smelled. The rich, meaty flavor of the curry mixing magically with the fragrant jasmine rice. And the best bite yet, Ian soon discovered, was when he scooped curry and rice up in the delicious hunks of Nepalese flat bread.
“Now tell me about Sten and this so-called pirate queen,” the Emperor said. He chuckled. “She must have a beaut of a PR department,” he said. “Strikes fear in her hearts over her victims before she even hoists the Jolly Roger.”
Jolly Roger? An ancient comedian? Once again, Mahoney was left puzzling over archaic terms, but he got the general gist of the Emperor’s meaning.
“I don’t mean to question your judgment, Your Highness,” Mahoney said. “But I don’t understand why we couldn’t just let nature take its course. Venatora was all but dead, she was. Which is what we wanted to begin with. Plus, it seems that the whole brotherhood of pirates business that has bedeviled us for all these years is about to implode.”
“Listen up, Ian, old friend, old pal,” the Emperor said. “The day you stop questioning my judgment is the day you’ll no longer be of any use to me. If you feel such a yes-man notion coming on fire yourself and save me the trouble. I already have more ‘yes your highness’ swinging Richards than Argos had fleas.”
That name Ian knew. Argos was Ulysses’ faithful hound during his years away from home. The Emperor’s obscure speech had sent him back to the history fiches and he’d immediately been stricken with admiration for the very ancient Greeks. Whether they predated the Emperor, he wasn’t sure. Lately, he’d been guessing that Emperor’s origins fell somewhere between the Greeks and the Romans. Both of whom he quoted frequently.
Scholars who dug too deeply into the Emperor’s background were usually discouraged. Politely, or otherwise. One historian surmised that the Emperor dated to the 21st century in the old school calendars. This didn’t make sense to Mahoney, so after reading the scholar’s notes, he’d burned them and dismissed them from his mind. The scholar later died in an unfortunate accident and the generous insurance payout kept the family sweet.
“Now, back to this beautiful splicer—Venatora,” the Emperor said. “I’d like to know more about the beings who made her. So let’s keep her alive a bit longer. Also, I have a few ideas on how we might be able to use this current thieves-falling-out debacle to our advantage. Maybe do away with the whole shebang, the Wichmans, Venatora, and the pirates with one simple truel.”
Mahoney frowned. “Truel, sir?”
“That’d be a three way duel,” the Emperor said.
Mahoney chuckled. “This I have to see, sir,” he said.
“Oh, you will, Ian,” the Eternal Emperor said. “You surely will. Now, pour us a couple of snifters of cognac and I’ll explain.”
Mahoney fetched the bottle, but he nearly dropped it when the Emperor said, “Did I ever tell you about Project Demeter?”
“Uh, boss,” Mahoney said. “Sten overheard one of Venatora’s allies mention a Project Demeter just before they escaped.”
“Did he now?” the Emperor said, a grin as wide as Earth’s moon splitting his chiseled features.
“Well, what is it, sir?” Mahoney asked.
“Food, Ian,” the Emperor said. “Magical, wonderful, glorious food.”