know. It was we who forced him to do what he's done. I'm not sure it wasn't worth the price to you. He could have caused you and your colleagues trouble."
"What, that punk?" Prax snorted. "I know he beat us out of some money, but . . ."
"I've always said it was only money, not principle," Momblent said, interrupting him. "I'm pleased you finally admit to that truth. So you don't send your people after him. You accept your loss gracefully, though I realize it will be difficult for you, as is anything smacking of gracefulness. Be glad you have a potentially dangerous rival out of the way. I suggest we simply leave this peculiar young man alone and let him go about his life as he wishes. We will watch him, and that is sufficient.
"He was an abandoned child. It's quite possible that having come into such a sum of money and having been exposed in his short lifetime to so many pleasures both common and radical, he will elect to erect himself a small palace somewhere and retire quietly to a life of ease."
"Maybe so," admitted Prax grudgingly. "Maybe you're right. You talked about fighting. Your reaction is to dance and wave. Mine's to hit back as hard as I can." He seemed, finally, to accept what had happened. Momblent breathed a silent sigh of relief.
"Can't do much about it now in any event, if what you say is right."
"That's correct, we can't," said the counselor approvingly.
Prax started for the door, thinking hard.
"There is one other thing, though, Counselor. I think this Loo-Macklin's just a punk. Clever, sure, but still just a punk. But if I'm wrong about him and you're right, and I have had a potentially dangerous adversary and competitor eliminated, and if he doesn't choose to retire quietly, well . . . he'll be operating in the world of legals now. In your world, not mine." For the first time since he'd come storming into the office the syndicate chieftain smiled.
"He's gonna be your problem now."
"I'm not terribly concerned," replied Momblent. His artificial gaze turned back to the screen, where the story was playing itself out against a background of distant hosannas. Evenwaith was very far away.
"In fact, I'm rather looking forward to seeing which choice the young man makes."
"He'd better cover himself well," Prax muttered darkly. He was at the doorway now. "Because I still have in mind what you said a few minutes ago about the notoriety surrounding him dying down. When it does, if he gets lazy, I'm gonna see to it that he gets a nice anniversary visit from some of my people."
He departed, the door closing softly behind him. Momblent sighed, relieved the interview was finally over. He despised dealing with things like Prax. Sometimes it was necessary, however. Sometimes it was profitable.
He turned his gaze back to the screen. The names of the arrested on Evenwaith were being paraded across the plastic.
Clever, clever are you, young Loo-Macklin. He studied the names carefully. Might be a familiar one or two on the list of the accused. In that case there'd be quiet work to do, depending on whom he owed favors to and whom he might want favors from.
Yes, it would pay to keep a watch on this strange fellow. From a distance. Nothing heavy. Just a pin-watch. He was mindful of Prax's words, for despite his low opinion of the syndicate chieftain's personality, he respected the man's primitive instincts.
"He's gonna be your problem now," Prax had said.
Chapter 6
"Sir, I don't know if I can cope with being legal."
"Oh, come on, Basright," Loo-Macklin chided him.
"Really, sir. Remember that I've been illegal my whole life."
"So have I." Loo-Macklin thoughtfully regarded the ceiling of his office. Images of fish and crustaceans drifted there, three-dimensional images born of clever electronics: an upside-down ocean. He'd always had a fondness for the sea, having never seen it.
"It's not all that difficult, Basright. It's not all that different. You just don't shoot people . . . as often. You murder them with
"What, that punk?" Prax snorted. "I know he beat us out of some money, but . . ."
"I've always said it was only money, not principle," Momblent said, interrupting him. "I'm pleased you finally admit to that truth. So you don't send your people after him. You accept your loss gracefully, though I realize it will be difficult for you, as is anything smacking of gracefulness. Be glad you have a potentially dangerous rival out of the way. I suggest we simply leave this peculiar young man alone and let him go about his life as he wishes. We will watch him, and that is sufficient.
"He was an abandoned child. It's quite possible that having come into such a sum of money and having been exposed in his short lifetime to so many pleasures both common and radical, he will elect to erect himself a small palace somewhere and retire quietly to a life of ease."
"Maybe so," admitted Prax grudgingly. "Maybe you're right. You talked about fighting. Your reaction is to dance and wave. Mine's to hit back as hard as I can." He seemed, finally, to accept what had happened. Momblent breathed a silent sigh of relief.
"Can't do much about it now in any event, if what you say is right."
"That's correct, we can't," said the counselor approvingly.
Prax started for the door, thinking hard.
"There is one other thing, though, Counselor. I think this Loo-Macklin's just a punk. Clever, sure, but still just a punk. But if I'm wrong about him and you're right, and I have had a potentially dangerous adversary and competitor eliminated, and if he doesn't choose to retire quietly, well . . . he'll be operating in the world of legals now. In your world, not mine." For the first time since he'd come storming into the office the syndicate chieftain smiled.
"He's gonna be your problem now."
"I'm not terribly concerned," replied Momblent. His artificial gaze turned back to the screen, where the story was playing itself out against a background of distant hosannas. Evenwaith was very far away.
"In fact, I'm rather looking forward to seeing which choice the young man makes."
"He'd better cover himself well," Prax muttered darkly. He was at the doorway now. "Because I still have in mind what you said a few minutes ago about the notoriety surrounding him dying down. When it does, if he gets lazy, I'm gonna see to it that he gets a nice anniversary visit from some of my people."
He departed, the door closing softly behind him. Momblent sighed, relieved the interview was finally over. He despised dealing with things like Prax. Sometimes it was necessary, however. Sometimes it was profitable.
He turned his gaze back to the screen. The names of the arrested on Evenwaith were being paraded across the plastic.
Clever, clever are you, young Loo-Macklin. He studied the names carefully. Might be a familiar one or two on the list of the accused. In that case there'd be quiet work to do, depending on whom he owed favors to and whom he might want favors from.
Yes, it would pay to keep a watch on this strange fellow. From a distance. Nothing heavy. Just a pin-watch. He was mindful of Prax's words, for despite his low opinion of the syndicate chieftain's personality, he respected the man's primitive instincts.
"He's gonna be your problem now," Prax had said.
Chapter 6
"Sir, I don't know if I can cope with being legal."
"Oh, come on, Basright," Loo-Macklin chided him.
"Really, sir. Remember that I've been illegal my whole life."
"So have I." Loo-Macklin thoughtfully regarded the ceiling of his office. Images of fish and crustaceans drifted there, three-dimensional images born of clever electronics: an upside-down ocean. He'd always had a fondness for the sea, having never seen it.
"It's not all that difficult, Basright. It's not all that different. You just don't shoot people . . . as often. You murder them with
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