grove of soaring redwoods with extreme skepticism. Perfectly safe, the logical side of his mind said. The other side, the side that had kept him alive on half a thousand primitive worlds, insisted there be ghosties and ghoulies and four-pawed critters with appetites inside.
As usual, he listened to that part of his mind and fished a combat harness from the back of the seat, slid the shoulderstraps on, and buckled the belt. On it hung a mini-willygun, a grenade pouch, and his combat knife.
"So if I'm wrong I'll feel like a clottin' fool," he sub-vocalized, and grabbed the small day pack from the floor of the car.
Looking cautiously about him, he paced very deliberately forward into the trees.
And, quite suddenly, standing in front of him was a small, bowlegged, muscular man wearing the mottled brown uniform of a guardsman and a rakishly-tilted bellman's cap with a chin-strap. The soldier's willygun was slung across his back.
Held in his right hand, at a forty-five-degree port-arms, was a fourteen-inch-long knife that looked like a machete, but its blade flared to double its size at the tip. The soldier's left hand held, almost caressingly, the back of the knife.
"Lieutenant-Colonel Ian Mahoney. Mercury Corps. On His Imperial Majesty's service," Mahoney said, being very careful not to move, trying to remember when and why he'd had himself hypnoconditioned to speak Gurkhali.
The soldier was perfectly motionless. Very cautiously Mahoney extended his right hand, palm down.
The guard took his left hand from the knife and unclipped his remote sender. Half-stepped forward and ran the computer's pickup over the back of Mahoney's wrist.
The computer read the implant and fed it back to the guard company's watch-computer. A beat, and then one light glowed green.
The Gurkha stepped back and brought his kukri to the salute.
Mahoney returned it and walked deeper into the woods.
He was very, very glad there hadn't been a glitch—he'd once been permitted to attend the praetorian unit's birthday and seen one soldier, no taller than the meter-and-a-half trooper who'd challenged Mahoney, lop a bullock's head off with one stroke, using the long ceremonial knife.
He half grinned, remembering the drunk that had followed the religious ceremonies and the blessing of the unit's weapons.
Tradition. How long, he wondered, had the short mountain men from Earth's Nepal served as soldiers'? Perhaps, he thought, longer than even the Eternal Emperor.
And then the roar of the river was loud in his ears, and he stepped through the scrub bush and stood looking down the sloping bank at the fisherman.
It was quite a sight. The man had the rod held high and horsed back. The salmon writhed in the rolling water around the man's knees.
"Ah, if I had one more hand…get in here, you clottin' fish."
The problem. Mahoney decided, was that the fish wouldn't fit the landing net the fisherman held in his other hand. The fisherman turned the chill air a little bluer, dropped the net to dangle from its waist-strap, pulled from his back pocket something Mahoney thought was remarkably like a sap, and smacked the fish.
The salmon convulsed and went limp.
"That's all you needed," the fisherman said with satisfaction.
"A priest to administer the last rights."
He swung the creel from his back, opened the top, and started to stuff the overlength fish into it.
"Nice to see a man happy at his work," Mahoney said dryly.
The fisherman froze, then turned and eyed Mahoney with a very cold eye.
"Is that any way to speak to me?"
Mahoney ceremoniously doffed his beret and knelt. "You are of course correct. Accept my most humble apologies, and allow me simultaneously to apologize for disturbing your vacation and to greet His Imperial Majesty, the Eternal Emperor Lord of Half the Universe and All Its Worshipful People, including that half-dead aquatic in your purse."
The Eternal Emperor snorted and began wading toward the bank.
"I have always appreciated," Mahoney
As usual, he listened to that part of his mind and fished a combat harness from the back of the seat, slid the shoulderstraps on, and buckled the belt. On it hung a mini-willygun, a grenade pouch, and his combat knife.
"So if I'm wrong I'll feel like a clottin' fool," he sub-vocalized, and grabbed the small day pack from the floor of the car.
Looking cautiously about him, he paced very deliberately forward into the trees.
And, quite suddenly, standing in front of him was a small, bowlegged, muscular man wearing the mottled brown uniform of a guardsman and a rakishly-tilted bellman's cap with a chin-strap. The soldier's willygun was slung across his back.
Held in his right hand, at a forty-five-degree port-arms, was a fourteen-inch-long knife that looked like a machete, but its blade flared to double its size at the tip. The soldier's left hand held, almost caressingly, the back of the knife.
"Lieutenant-Colonel Ian Mahoney. Mercury Corps. On His Imperial Majesty's service," Mahoney said, being very careful not to move, trying to remember when and why he'd had himself hypnoconditioned to speak Gurkhali.
The soldier was perfectly motionless. Very cautiously Mahoney extended his right hand, palm down.
The guard took his left hand from the knife and unclipped his remote sender. Half-stepped forward and ran the computer's pickup over the back of Mahoney's wrist.
The computer read the implant and fed it back to the guard company's watch-computer. A beat, and then one light glowed green.
The Gurkha stepped back and brought his kukri to the salute.
Mahoney returned it and walked deeper into the woods.
He was very, very glad there hadn't been a glitch—he'd once been permitted to attend the praetorian unit's birthday and seen one soldier, no taller than the meter-and-a-half trooper who'd challenged Mahoney, lop a bullock's head off with one stroke, using the long ceremonial knife.
He half grinned, remembering the drunk that had followed the religious ceremonies and the blessing of the unit's weapons.
Tradition. How long, he wondered, had the short mountain men from Earth's Nepal served as soldiers'? Perhaps, he thought, longer than even the Eternal Emperor.
And then the roar of the river was loud in his ears, and he stepped through the scrub bush and stood looking down the sloping bank at the fisherman.
It was quite a sight. The man had the rod held high and horsed back. The salmon writhed in the rolling water around the man's knees.
"Ah, if I had one more hand…get in here, you clottin' fish."
The problem. Mahoney decided, was that the fish wouldn't fit the landing net the fisherman held in his other hand. The fisherman turned the chill air a little bluer, dropped the net to dangle from its waist-strap, pulled from his back pocket something Mahoney thought was remarkably like a sap, and smacked the fish.
The salmon convulsed and went limp.
"That's all you needed," the fisherman said with satisfaction.
"A priest to administer the last rights."
He swung the creel from his back, opened the top, and started to stuff the overlength fish into it.
"Nice to see a man happy at his work," Mahoney said dryly.
The fisherman froze, then turned and eyed Mahoney with a very cold eye.
"Is that any way to speak to me?"
Mahoney ceremoniously doffed his beret and knelt. "You are of course correct. Accept my most humble apologies, and allow me simultaneously to apologize for disturbing your vacation and to greet His Imperial Majesty, the Eternal Emperor Lord of Half the Universe and All Its Worshipful People, including that half-dead aquatic in your purse."
The Eternal Emperor snorted and began wading toward the bank.
"I have always appreciated," Mahoney
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