Diplomat at Arms (12 page)

“Everybody in,” Arrol called. The men went for the ladder,
sprang up in good order; those waiting on the ramp faced outward, covering all
points.

A
light flashed briefly from the adjacent vessel; a sharp report echoed. A man
fell from the ladder; others caught him, lifted him up. Far away, a harsh voice
bellowed orders.

“They aren’t using any heavy stuff,” Arrol said. “They
wouldn’t want to nick the paint on their new battle wagon . . .”

A squad of men appeared, running from the shadows at the base
of the ship from which the firing had come. Most of the troop were up the
ladder now; two men hustled the struggling Groaci up. Beside Retief, Arrol
launched three bolts in rapid-fire order. Two of the oncoming men fell. The
blue flashes of power guns winked; here and there, the surface of the tarmac
boiled as wild shots struck.

“Come on . . .” The two men ran for the
ladder; Arrol sprang for it, swarmed up. Retief followed; molten metal
spattered as a power-gun bolt vaporized the handrail. Then hands were hauling
him inside.

“Hit the deck,” Arrol yelled. “We’re
lifting . . . ?”

“We
took one burst from an infinite repeater,” an officer reported, “but no serious
damage was done. They held their fire just a little too long.”

“We were lucky,” Prince Tavilan said. “One man killed, one
wounded. It’s fortunate we didn’t select the next ship in line; we’d have had a
hornet’s nest on our hands.”

“Too bad we broke up the battalion crap game,” Retief
commented. “But by now they’ll be lifting off after us—a few of them, anyway.”

“All right—we’ll give them a warm welcome before they nail
us—”

“If I may venture to suggest—”

Tavilan waved a hand, grinning. “Every time you get too
damned polite, you’ve got some diabolical scheme up your sleeve. What is it
this time, Retief?”

“We won’t wait around to be nailed. We’ll drive for Deep
Space at flank speed—”

“And run into Dangredi’s blockage? I’d rather use my
firepower on Prouch’s scavengers.”

“That’s where our friend the General comes in.” Retief nodded
toward the trussed Groaci. “He and Dangredi are old business associates. We’ll
put him on the screen and see if he can’t negotiate a brief truce. With the
approval of Your Highness, I think we can make an offer that will interest
him . . .”

The flagship of the pirate fleet was a four-hundred-year-old,
five-hundred-thousand-ton dreadnought, a relic of pre-Concordiat times. In the
red-lit gloom of its cavernous Command Control deck, Retief and Prince Tavilan
relaxed in deep couches designed for the massive frames of the Hondu corsairs.
Opposite them, Dangredi, the Hondu chieftain, lounged at ease, his shaggy,
leather-strapped, jewel-spangled 350-pound bulk almost overflowing his
throne-like chair. At Retief’s side, General Hish perched nervously. Half a
dozen of Tavilan’s Invincibles stood around the room, chatting with an equal
number of Dangredi’s hulking officers, whose greenish fur looked black in the
light from the crimson lamps.

“What I failing to grasp,” Dangredi rumbled, “is reason for
why suddenly now changing of plan previously okayed.”

“I hardly think that matters,” Tavilan said smoothly. “I’ve
offered to add one hundred thousand Galactic Credits to the sum already agreed
on.”

“But the whole idea was compensate me, Grand Hereditary War
Chief of Hondu people, for not fight; now is offering more pay for stand and
give battle . . .”

“I thought you Hondu loved war,” an Eloran officer said.

Dangredi nodded his heavy green-furred head, featureless but
for two wide green-pupiled eyes. “Crazy mad for warring, and also plenty fond
of cash. But is smelling rodent somewhere in woodpile . . .”

“It’s very simple, Commodore,” Retief said. “General Hish
here had arranged with you to flee when the People’s Volunteer forces attacked;
now changing conditions on Elora make it necessary that you fight—and in place
of the loot you would otherwise so rightly expect, you’ll collect a handsome
honorarium—”

Suddenly the Groaci leaped to his feet, pointed at Retief.
“Commodore Dangredi,” he hissed. “This renegade diplomat beside me holds a gun
pointed at my vitals; only thus did he coerce me to request this parley. Had I
guessed his intention, I would have dared him to do his worst. Seize the
traitor, Excellency!”

Dangredi stared at the Groaci.

“He—and these strutting popinjays—plot against the security
of the People’s State of Elora!” Hish whispered urgently. “The plan remains
unchanged! You are to flee engagement with the forces of Minister Prouch!”

The great green head bobbed suddenly; hooting laughter
sounded. A vast hand slapped a thigh like a shaggy beer keg.

“Aha! At last is getting grasp of situation,” Dangredi
bellowed. “Now is little honest treachery, kind of dealing Hondu
understanding!” He waved a hand at a servitor standing by. “Bringing wassail
bowl, plenty meat!” He brought his hands together with a dull boom, rubbed them
briskly. “Double-cross, plenty fighting, more gold at end of trail! Is kind of
operation I, Dangredi, Hereditary War chief, dreaming of in long nights of
tooth-shedding time!”

“But these—these criminal kidnappers have no authority to
deal—”

“Groaci-napping is harmless pastime—like stealing wine-melons
when cub. Unless, maybe . . .” he cocked a large emerald eye at
Hish “ . . . you maybe raising ante?”

“I . . . I will match the offer of the
saboteurs of interplanetary amity! One hundred thousand in Groaci gold!”

Dangredi considered briefly. “No good. What about fighting?
You give Hondu gunners targets in sights? Or maybe chance for rough-and-tumble,
hand-to-hand, cold steel against enemy blades?”

General Hish shuddered. “In the name of civilization, I
appeal—”

“Shove civilization in ventral orifice! Hondu taking good,
crooked, blood-thirsty barbarians every time. Now disappearing quietly, Groaci,
while I and new buddies planning strategy. Maybe later I sending for you and
bending arms and legs until you tell all about enemy battle
plan . . .”

“The Groaci is our hostage,” Tavilan said as the general was
led away. “He’s not to be bent without my prior approval.”

“Sure; just having little joke.” Dangredi leaned back, accepted
a vast drumstick and a tank of wine, waited while his guests accepted proffered
delicacies.

“Now, Retief, you say attack coming
when . . . ?”

“I must confess,” Counselor Magnan said, “I don’t quite
understand how it happened that after trouncing the Eloran Volunteers, the
pirate Dangredi voluntarily gave himself up and offered the services of his
entire fleet as a reserve force to replace the very units he destroyed.”

“Never mind that, Magnan,” Ambassador Hidebinder said. “As
seasoned campaigners must, we shall accept the
fait accompli
. Our
resettlement plans are set back a year, at least. It’s doubly unfortunate that
Prime Minister Prouch suffered a fall just at this time. Magnan, you’ll attend
the funeral.”

“With pleasure, Mr. Ambassador,” Magnan said. “That is, I’ll
be honored—”

“Retief . . .” Hidebinder glared across the
table. “I’m not going to press civil charges, since the Eloran government, at
the behest of Prince Tavilan, has dropped the case. However, I may as well tell
you at once—your future with the Corps is non-existent. A trifling embezzlement
of official funds, I could wink at. Embellished reports, slack performance of
duty, cowardice in the face of the enemy—these I could shrug off as youthful
peccadilloes. But foot-dragging in the carrying out of Corps policy—” his fist
thumped the desk. “Intolerable!”

A
messenger entered the conference room, handed a note to Magnan, who passed it
to Hidebinder; he opened it impatiently, glanced at it. His jaw dropped. He
read it through again. His mouth closed; his jowls paled, quivering.

“Mr. Ambassador—what is it?” Magnan gasped.

Hidebinder rose and tottered from the room. Magnan snatched
up the paper, read it through, then stared at Retief.

“He’s been—declared
persona non grata
—The Imperial
government gives him twelve hours to leave Elora . . . !”

Retief glanced at the wall clock. “If he hurries, he can
catch the mail boat.”

“And you, Retief . . . !”

Retief
raised his eyebrows. Magnan glanced around the table. “If you gentlemen will
excuse us for a few moments . . . ?” Half a dozen frowning
diplomats filed from the room. Magnan cleared his throat. “This is
most
irregular, Retief! The imperial government requests that you present
credentials as Minister Plenipotentiary and Ambassador Extraordinary at
once . . . they will accept no other appointee . . .”

Retief tsked. “I told Prince Tavilan I wouldn’t have time for
a ceremonial job. I have a suggestion, Mr. Magnan: suppose I nominate you for
the post?”

“Over the heads of a hundred senior officers?” Magnan gasped.
“Retief, dear boy . . .”

“That is, if your distaste for monarchies isn’t
overwhelming . . . ?”

“Eh? Oh, well, as to that,” Magnan sat erect, tugged his
lapels into place. “I’ve always had a sneaking admiration for absolute
royalty.”

“Fine.
Dangredi will be along in a few minutes to arrange for supplies; it seems there
are a few shiploads of CDT-sponsored undesirables already landing on the
northern continent who’ll have to be warned off. It’s probably just a slip. I’m
sure our former Ambassador wouldn’t have jumped the gun in violation of solemn
treaties.”

“Ah,” Magnan said.

“And,
of course, the Royal Navy will require provisioning—just to be sure the new
Reservists don’t get any large ideas . . .”

“Uh . . .”

“And, of course, a new treaty plainly guaranteeing the
territorial integrity of Elora will have to be worked up at
once . . .”

“Oh . . .”

Retief rose. “All of which I’m sure you’ll handle
brilliantly, Mr. Ambassador. And by the way—I think I could best serve the
mission in some other capacity than as Admin Officer . . .”

Magnan pulled at his collar,
waiting . . . 

“I think I’d better work closely with Prince Tavilan, the
heir apparent,” Retief said blandly. “He does a lot of hunting, so perhaps
you’d better designate me as Field and Stream Attaché . . .” He
picked up his cross-bow from the corner.

“I leave the details to you, Mr. Ambassador. I’m going
hunting.”

“Ever
mindful of its lofty mission as guardian of the territorial integrity of
Terrestrial-settled worlds against forays by non-social-minded alien groups,
the Corps, in time of need, dispatched inobtrusive representatives to
threatened areas, thus dynamically reaffirming hallowed Corps principles of
Terrestrial solidarity. The unflinching support tendered by Deputy Ass’t Under-Secretary
Magnan to Jorgensen’s Worlds in their hour of crisis added a proud page to
Corps history . . .”

—Vol. X, Reel 9, 493 AE (AD 2954)

 “It
is
rather unusual, Retief,” Deputy Assistant Under-Secretary Magnan
said, “to assign an officer of your rank to courier duty; but this is an
unusual mission.”

Retief drew on his cigar and said nothing. Just before the
silence grew awkward, Magnan went on.

“There are four planets in the group,” he said. “Two double
planets, all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 814369.
They’re called Jorgensen’s Worlds, and in themselves are of no importance
whatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soetti have been
penetrating.

“Now,” Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice, “we have
learned that the Soetti plan a bold step forward. They’ve been quietly
occupying non-settled worlds. Since they’ve met no opposition so far in their
infiltration of Terrestrial space, they intend to seize Jorgensen’s Worlds by
force.”

Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief’s reaction. Retief
drew carefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned.

“This is open aggression, Retief, in case I haven’t made
myself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alien species.
Obviously, we can’t allow it.” He drew a large folder from his desk.

“A show of resistance at this point is necessary.
Unfortunately, Jorgensen’s Worlds are backward, technologically undeveloped
areas. They’re farmers, traders; their industry is limited to a minor role in
their economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The war potential,
by conventional standards, is nil.”

Magnan tapped the folder before him.

“I have here,” he said solemnly, “information which will
change that picture completely.” He leaned back, blinked at Retief.

“All right, Mr. Secretary,” Retief said. “I’ll play along;
what’s in the folder?”

Magnan spread his fingers, folded one digit down.