The Panoply now connected the Rhododendron to the Drover, creating a massive three-ship complex commanded by His Imperial Worship. This looked less loke one large ship than like a large, beautiful, elegant, heartbreakingly lovely ship which had run into two chunks of space debris. No one mentioned this to Sheriff Parimat, who knew it anyhow.
His Imperial Worship sat in a light blue room aboard the Drover. The [pirate who had hijacked the immense and graceful slave transport had never penetrated to this exclusive command booth. He wouldn’t have liked it. The sleek, efficient bridge he loathed was utilitarian; this had been constructed for beauty and for luxury. The result would have grated against hus nerves the way His Imperial Worship’s nail file sometimes grated against teeth. Three technicians had spent their lives designing the sleek dotted control console. Polaster a-Khive had committed suicide on finding that two of the colored dots would have clashed with His Imperial Worship’s security force field.
His Imperial Worship reached into the snack container at his elbow, where some of his refreshments continued to whimper. Then he changed his mind, and moved his chair a little forward.
“Ah!” A little motor purred as the chair reclined a bit to allow him a better view of the big screen. A hand went to one of the polka dots on the light blue console. The dot changed color: a close-up of the two prisoners filled the screen. They were waking up, the tattered little pirate first. “Ah! Ah! Ah!”
Some twenty feet to the rear of the Imperial Chair sat the large egg which had been brought over from the Panoply to the Rhododendron and now to the Drover. Now divided in two, it hovered above a circular blue grate, the halves four feet above the floor and ten feet from each other. Imperial staff in the room were scrupulous about not coming within arm’s reach of it.
These privileged few were Sheriff Parimat, Taw Brust, and Dr. Pirgy from the Rhododendron, with Nosfro Sinca, Lanos Galen, and Sirg, tallest of the Imperial demi-pigs, representing the Panoply.
It was to be a great moment. The Sheriff wished she had missed it.
The prisoners, although still groggy, were becoming alert enough to be curious about where they were. Their hands slid up the walls of the tubular glass cell. The Dangerous Rebel’s nose nearly vanished completely as she pressed her nose against the glass. Only a thin, transparent layer of glass stood between her and her ship, which sat not a dozen feet away. Fists pounded against the glass, making no sound which could be heard in the padded control room.
“She should do well,” said Nosfro, his voice deep and passionless.
“Skinch,” agreed Pirg. “And skinch.”
“Ye-es,” said His Imperial Worship. “The pirate disappoints me. I thought pirates had more up-and-git-go.” The other prisoner had sat back down, his chin on his knees.
His Imperial Worship studied the prisoners for a moment and then leaned forward to drop his fist on the largest console dot.
“You have the privilege of hearing His Imperial Worship’s own voice,” he cooed.
Leaping to his feet, the pirate shouted something. Its nature was not revealed, there being no speaker attached to the big screen. His Imperial Worship smiled. “Much better.”
Sheriff Parimat glanced at her Deputy, the only person, besides His Imperial Worship, actually conducting Imperial business at the moment. He controlled the black box which broadcast events here to Entertainment Service Chanell 3 down on Lodeon VII. A massive audience was paying attention; bets large enough to tilt the economies of half a dozen planets had already been registered.
“But that is not the sum of your privileges,” His Imperial Worship informed the prisoners. “You are currently in the Gantlet of the Drover. This section was designed for the instruction of disobedient slaves, as well as for the entertainment of Imperial troops, particularly on long transports.”
The Sherrif nodded. His Imperial Worship had always been attentive about keeping his soldiers amused until it was time for them to die.
“The Gantlet, however, has never been fully tested.” The absurd little pirate shouted again. “Must find out which tab controls the translator,” murmured His Imperial Worship.
Then he went on, “In gratitude to you for making yourself available for this test, we offer you a prize. The Dragonshelf….” He watched their eyes: priceless. “With its cargo intact, awaits the winner.”
Imperial palms squeaked a little as they rubbed together. The librarian was doing her best to push her face right through the glass.
“Any survivors who return to this room will be allowed to depart aboard the Dargonshelf, and go where you will.”
Sheriff Parimat shook her head. “You have a suggestion, sweet sheriff?” inquired His Imperial Worship, not looking back.
She knew it had been foolish to assume, with all the little screens facing His Imperial Worship, that he would not be monitoring his audience as well. But she replied at once, “Your Imperial Worship has ordered that the prisoners be allowed to retain all their weapons and security cards. One wonders if, under such circumstances, they will really provide good sport.”
“If this ship is all it is designed to be,” His Imperial Worship purred, “They will need everything they have to afford any sport at all. The game will start now. Bad luck to you, traitors. Break your backs.”
An Imperial thumb came down on a light blue dot. Just slowly enough for the prisoners to realize it, the door beneath the pair slid away, letting the pair drop out of sight.
A second Imperial thumb pressed a pink dot. The scene on the main screen traded places with one on a smaller monitor, showing a vast white room miles from the prisoners’ starting point. He adjusted the picture to focus on a circular opening in the ceiling.
“All right.” His Imperial Worship turned the chair so that he faced his guests. “Everyone out. Take the box with you, Brust. I alone will watch the first test of this facility live, and will broadcast on a ten second delay to our audience. Sheriff Parimat, I require that you take command of this complex while I am sequestered here.”
The Sheriff found herself suddenly wishing the traitors good luck and long life. She stepped forward. “It shall be done, Your Imperial Worship.” No doubt they would be stuck in orbit around Lodeon VII for days, while the Rhododendron was needed for important work elsewhere. And an orbit around Lodeon VII meant disciplinary problems, with her troops finding ways to sneak down to the Circus Planet for unauthorized breaks. But at least she would have her command back.
“Take this,” said His Imperial Worship, “As a symbol of so immense a task.” He reached into a compartment on his arm rest and brought out a transparent blue disk with a golden pig at the center. The disc showed the bearer to be an Imperial Field Marshal.
She reached for it, realizing just an eyeblink too late that the Emperor, in holding it out, had not modified his force field to allow her hand to enter.
The others stepped backward as the Sheriff’s body jerked and twitched. Her lips were pressed shut as she twisted; only Sirg spoke above the crackling and hissing of the fore field. “Ee-gooey!”
In a mighty convulsion, the Sherrif pulled free of the force field and dropped to the floor, hair and uniform smoking. His Imperial Worship watched her for a second, and then adjusted his chair so that it faced the main screen again.
“Biggest joy buzzer in the universe,” he sighed.
Taw Brust stepped toward his captain, who was doing her best to rise. “You have your duties, Brust,” the Emperor reminded him. “So does our sweet sheriff. No. you’ll need to change into another uniform, won’t you? Sirg, I think you had best take command of the complex in her place. Our sheriff is too…untidy for such responsibility. Have her report to the Panoply for remedial lessons in control of bodily functions. You will find, sweet Sheriff, that Stenge is a most excellent instructor.”
He pressed a pair of dots on the large console, his eyes on the opening in the ceiling shown on the screen. “Come, traitors. I’m waiting.”
The door to the little command center slid open. The sheriff crawled toward it, prodded from behind by Sirg.
“Skwitch,” he said,
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