Robert Asprin - Tambu

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"But terrorism and violence as a way of life?" the reporter pressed. "It seems a rather harsh way to

extract a living from the universe."

"Terrorism and violence," Tambu mused. "Yes, I suppose you could call it that. Tell me, though, Mr.

Erickson, do you apply the same phrasing to what the Defense Alliance does? Both my fleet and that of

the Alliance earn their living the same way: selling protection to the planets. They include us as one of

the threats they are protecting the planets against. Aside from that, we do not differ greatly..."

For the first time, the man known as the "Interstellar Genghis Khan" tells his story. Believe it or not, as

you choose. A man in Tambu's position does not need friends, though he may take a theoretical interest

in the world's assessment of his veracity...

TAMBU

ROBERT LYNN ASPRIN

ace books

A Division of Charier Communications Inc. A GROSSET & DUNLAP COMPANY

51 Madison Avenue New York, New York 10010

TAMBU

inclusion of brief quotations in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher.

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely

coincidental.

An ACE Book

Cover art by Rowena Morrill Book Design by Grace Markman

First Ace printing: November 1979

First Mass Market printing: August 1980

2468097531 Manufactured in the United States of America

TAMBU

INTERVIEW I

As the airlock door hissed shut behind him, the reporter took advantage of the moment of privacy to rub

his palms on his trouser legs; he wished that he had a bit more faith in his Newsman's Immunity.

He had never really expected to be granted this interview. The request had been made as the prelude to a

joke: a small bit of humor to casually drop into conversation with other reporters. He had anticipated

making lofty reference to having been refused an interview by the dread Tambu himself. Then, as the

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skeptics voiced their doubts, he could silence them by producing the letter of refusal. But his plans had

come to a jarring halt.

His request had been granted.

His editor had been no less surprised than he; his cynical indifference was swept aside by a wave of

excitement... excitement mixed with suspicion. An interview with Tambu would be a feather in the cap

of any journalist; a much-sought-after feather which had thus far eluded the grasp of many older, more

experienced reporters. It seemed strange that this prize would go to a junior reporter who in five years of

working for the news service had covered only minor stories.

One thing was sure: this interview would not be filler material. It would be the turning point of his

career, eagerly read and studied throughout the settled universe, focusing an incredible amount of

attention on his work. If his treatment was equal to his subject, he would be flooded with job offers. But

if his work was judged and found lacking...

Despite his daydreams and careful preparations, he found that now that it was imminent, he approached

the meeting with increasing dread. There were a thousand ways this "golden opportunity" could sour,

resulting in an abrupt end to his career... and perhaps his life with it.

He had half-expected, half-hoped, that when he arrived at the rendezvous, he would be greeted by empty

space. But the ship had been there, dwarfing his own craft with its immense size. The reporter

remembered being slightly disappointed at the outward appearance of the vessel. He had expected a

sleek jet-black monster adorned with Tambu's well-known crest... the silver death's head surmounted on

a nebula. Instead, the ship was little different from the hundreds of freighters which traversed the star

lanes, shuttling their cargos from planet to planet. The only clues to this ship's potential savagery were

the numerous gun turrets prominent on its outer hull. It seemed ready for combat, its sails taken in as if

in preparation for flight or fight... though the idea of his tiny ship attacking this dreadnought was

ludicrous.

Now, here he was aboard Tambu's own flagship, about to meet face to face with the most feared

individual in the settled universe. He had only a moment to reflect upon these thoughts before a soft

chime sounded and the inner door opened to receive him.

The first thing that struck him about the quarters was the psychological warmth of the room. He

instinctively wanted to examine the quarters more closely, and just as instinctively suppressed the desire.

Instead, he contented himself with a brief look at the cabin and its contents.

The walls were of a texture unfamiliar to him, of a dark gold in dramatic contrast to the customary

white. The trappings of the room made quiet contribution to the atmosphere. There were paintings on the

walls, and books lined the shelves-honest-to-God books instead of the tape-scanner usually found in

libraries and studies. Several easy chairs were scattered about the room, obviously at convenient points

for reading or contemplation. Tucked away in one corner was a bed-double bed, the reporter noted with

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professional interest.

The only reminder that this was not simply a luxury cabin or a lounge was a huge communications

console which dominated one full wall of the room. Even compared to the familiar network terminals at

the newscenters, this console was impressive, with banks of keys and controls surrounding a modest

viewscreen. After eyeing the console's array of flickering lights and gauges for a moment, he turned

again to sweep the cabin with a wide gaze, seeking an overall impression.

The total effect of the room was quite different from what the reporter had expected. It had the lived-in,

personal air of a home, rather than the cold efficiency of a command post. Anywhere else it would have

been incredibly relaxing. Here it gave the room the feeling of a lair. The reporter glanced about him

again. Where was Tambu?

"Please be seated, Mr. Erickson."

Startled by the voice, the reporter turned again to face the console. The viewscreen was still blank, but it

was apparent that the unit was operational, and that Tambu was now watching him... watching and

waiting.

Fighting off his apprehensions, the reporter seated himself at the console.

"I am addressing Tambu?" he asked with an ease he did not truly feel.

"That is correct, Mr. Erickson. I notice you've brought a Tri-D recorder with you. As I will not be

meeting you face to face, it is unnecessary. The console at which you are seated is recording our

conversation. You will be supplied with a copy. Visually, there will be nothing to record."

"I was promised a personal interview," Erickson half-explained, half-protested, then cursed himself

mentally. If he didn't watch himself, he'd end up alienating Tambu before the interview even began.

"Personal in that you will be dealing with me directly rather than with one of my subordinates," Tambu

clarified, apparently unoffended by the reporter's remark. "For security reasons, a face-to-face meeting is

out of the question. I maintain several flagships identical to the one you are on now, and part of the

problem confronting any Defense Alliance ship seeking to capture me is discovering which ship I'm on

and when. My exact location is kept secret, even from my own fleet."

"Aren't these precautions a little extreme for meeting a lone reporter in a rented shuttlecraft?"

"Frankly, Mr. Erickson, reporters have been known to stray from their oaths of neutrality... particularly

where my fleet and I are concerned. My defensive preparations for this meeting, therefore, go quite

beyond what meets the eye. As an example, you might be wondering why you were granted this

interview aboard one of my flagships when the smallest ship at my command has a viewscreen you

could have listened at just as easily."

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"It did cross my mind," the reporter admitted uneasily. "I assumed you were trying to impress me."

"There was that," Tambu laughed, "but there was also another, much more important reason: all my

flagships, including the one you're on now, are rigged to self-destruct either from the captain's cabin, or

by a remote signal from me. The explosives on board are sufficient to cause severe damage to any ships

in firing range at the time of detonation. If your request for an interview had been a ploy to lure me or

one of my ships to a predetermined point for an ambush, the appearance of a dreadnought-class flagship

would have been a nasty surprise for the hunters. If the waiting ships were of sufficient size or numbers

to trap and capture a dreadnought, the captain was under orders to trigger the self-destruct mechanism. It

would have been a costly but necessary example for anyone who might entertain similar thoughts of

entrapment."

"I thought the crew seemed awfully glad to see me," Erickson muttered, licking his lips nervously. "So

I'm sitting here on a bomb that might go off at any time. That's certainly incentive for me to keep this

interview short."

"Please, Mr. Erickson, there is nothing to worry about. I mentioned the self-destruct mechanism as an

example of our defensive arrangements, not as a threat to you. Take as much time as is necessary."

"If you say so," the reporter murmured doubtfully. The conversation was taking a dubious tack, and he

was eager to change the subject.

"You're upset," Tambu observed. "If you'd care for a drink, there is a bottle of Scotch on the table by the

bathroom sink, along with glasses and ice. 'Inverness' I believe it's called. Feel free to help yourself."

"Thank you, no. I don't drink while I'm working."

"Very well. However, I've taken the liberty of ordering the ship's crew to load a case of that particular

liquor onto your ship. Please accept it as a personal gift from me."

"You seem to know quite a bit about me," the reporter observed. "Right down to the brand of liquor I

would drink, if I could afford it."

"I probably know more about you than you do, and definitely more than you'd like me to know. I've

reviewed your family history, health records, psychological records, as well as copies of everything

you've ever written including that rather dubious series of articles you wrote in school under an assumed

name. You were checked very closely before permission for this interview was granted. I don't talk with

just anyone who drops me a note. In my line of work, my whole future and that of my forces hinges on

my ability to gather and analyze data. If I didn't think you were safe, you wouldn't be here."

"Yet you refuse to meet me face-to-face and dispatched a ship rigged to blow in event of betrayal?"

Erickson smiled. "Your actions aren't as confident as your words."

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There was a moment of silence before the reply came.

"I've made mistakes before," Tambu said at last. "Often enough that I long since abandoned any ideas of

infallibility. In lieu of that, I guard against all possibilities to the best of my abilities. Now may we start

the interview? Even though I have tried to set aside time for this meeting, there are many demands on

my time and I can't be sure how long we'll have before other priorities pull me away."

"Certainly," Erickson agreed readily, glad to resume the familiar role of an interviewer. "I guess the first

question would be to ask why someone of your intelligence and abilities turned to the ways of war and

world conquering as a way of life rather than seeking a place in the established order."

"Purely a matter of convenience. If you think for a moment, I'm sure you could think of several men

both as intelligent and as ruthless as I in your so-called established order. As you pointed out, they have

successfully risen to positions of power, wealth, and influence. I am not that much different than they;

only I chose to move into a field where there was little or no competition. Why fight my way up a chain

of command when by taking one step sideways I could form my own chain of command with myself at

the top, running things the way I felt they should be run from the start instead of adapting someone else's

system until I was high enough to make my presence felt."

"But to terrorism and violence as a way of life?" the reporter pressed. "It seems a rather harsh way to

extract a living from the universe."

"Terrorism and violence," Tambu mused. "Yes, I suppose you could call it that. Tell me though, Mr.

Erickson, do you apply the same phrasing to what the Defense Alliance does? Both my fleet and that of

the Alliance earn their living the same way-selling protection to the planets. They include us as one of

the threats they are protecting the planets against. Aside from that, we do not differ greatly, except in

words; a 'police action' versus a 'reign of terror.' Perhaps I over simplify the situation, but I don't feel the

differential is justified."

"Then you see nothing wrong in what you're doing?" the reporter asked.

"Please, Mr. Erickson, none of your journalistic tricks of putting words in my mouth. I did not say I

don't see anything wrong in what I do; simply that I don't see that much difference between my own

forces tactics and those of the Defense Alliance."

"Are you then asserting that in the current conflict that it is you who are the hero and the Defense

Alliance the villains?" Erickson prodded.

"Mr. Erickson I have asked you once, I will now warn you," Tambu's tone was soft, but deadly. "Do not

attempt to twist my words into what I have not said. If I make a statement or express an opinion you take

exception to, you are certainly welcome to comment to that effect, either in this meeting or in your

article. However, do not attempt to condemn me for opinions which are not my own. I have shown my

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respect for you and your intelligence by granting this interview. Kindly return the compliment by

remembering that in this interview you are not dealing with a dull-witted planetary sub-official and

conduct yourself accordingly.

"Yes, sir. I'll remember that," the reporter promised, properly mollified. He would have to mask his

questions more carefully.;

"See that you do. Still, you did raise a curious point. The rather romantic concept of heroes and villains,

good guys and bad guys. It would be amusing if I did not think that you actually believe that rot. That's

the main reason I granted this interview. It stands out all over your writing, and I wanted to meet

someone who really believes in heroes. In exchange, I offered you a chance to meet a villain."

"Well, actually... "Erickson began, but Tambu cut him off.

"There are no heroes, Mr. Erickson. There are no villains." Tambu's voice was suddenly cold. "There are

only humans. Men and women who alternately succeed and fail. If they are on your side and succeed,

they are heroes. If they're on the other side, they're villains. It's as simple as that. Concepts such as good

and evil exist only as rationalizations, an artificial logic to mask the true reasons for our feelings. There

is no evil. No one wakes up in the morning and says, 'I think I'll go out and do something terrible.' Their

actions are logical and beneficial to them. It's only after the fact when things go awry that they are

credited with being evil."

"Frankly, sir, I find that a little hard to accept," Erickson frowned. This time his challenge was planned,

carefully timed to keep his subject talking.

"Of course. That's why you're here, so I could take this opportunity to show you a viewpoint other than

that to which you are accustomed. As a journalist, you are no doubt aware that in the course of my

career I have been compared with Genghis Khan, Caesar, Napoleon, and Hitler. I believe that if you

could have interviewed any one of those men, he would have told you the same thing I am today, that

there is no difference between the two sides of a battle except 'them and us'. There may be racial,

religious, cultural, or military differences, but the only determination of who is the hero and who is the

villain is which side he's on. That-and who wins."

"Then what you are claiming is that this moral equivalence of opponents also applies to today's

situation?"

"Especially today," Tambu said. "Now that mankind has moved away from the bloodbath concept of

war, it is easier than ever to observe. Despite the blood-curdling renditions of space warfare which adorn

the newstapes and literature, actual combat is a rarity. It's far too costly in men and equipment, and there

is no need for it. Each fleet has approximately four hundred ships of varying sizes, and there are over

two thousand inhabited planets. Even at the rate of one ship per planet, there is always going to be over

eighty percent of the planets unoccupied at any given time. For a ship of either force to move on a new

planet means temporarily abandoning another. As such, there is little or no combat between the fleets.

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The objective is to either move into unoccupied systems and divert their tribute into our coffers, or move

into an occupied system with sufficient force to where the opposing ships will abandon the system rather

than enter into a lopsided battle. It's a massive game of move and countermove, with little if any

difference between the gamesmen."

"A stalemate," Erickson suggested. "Yet there was a time when the Defense Alliance was substantially

weaker than your fleet. I find it interesting that you were powerless to stop its growth.

"Just because we refrained from openly opposing the Alliance when it was forming doesn't necessarily

mean we were powerless to do so. You might say that was my error. I seriously underestimated their

potential at first and actually ordered my fleet to avoid contact with them. Remember, we were well

established at the time, and did not consider them a serious threat."

"I remember," the reporter nodded. He didn't, but he had done his homework in the news-service's

backfiles. "Actually, I had hoped to get some information from you about those early days, before the

Defense Alliance formed."

"That would take quite a bit of time, Mr. Erickson. I don't think you're aware of what you're asking.

Most people never heard of me until we first started offering our services to the planets. In actuality, the

fleet had been operating as a unit long before then. For me, the early days go back much farther than the

point when we first appeared in the public eye."

"But that's specifically what I'm after. I want to be able to trace your career from its early days to the

present, showing how you've developed over the years."

"Very well," Tambu sighed. "We'll cover as much as time allows. This will probably get quite involved,

but I'm willing to talk if you're willing to listen."

"Then how would you say your career began?"

There was a moment's pause.

"There is a strong temptation to say I started out as a child."

"... born into a poor, but honest family?" Erickson completed the old joke, smiling in spite of himself.

"Not really. Actually, my parents were fairly well off. Various people have speculated that I had a bitter

childhood, ruthlessly fighting for existence in the streets of some backwater planet. The truth is my

father was... successful, quite successful at what he did. I would even go so far as to say that I had more

love and affection in my early childhood than did the average person."

"Then...what happened? I mean, why did you... choose the path you have?"

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"Why did I turn renegade?" Tambu asked, echoing Erickson's thoughts. "First, allow me to clarify my

home situation. While, as I said, I was not lacking for affection, there were certain expectations placed

upon me. I was to exceed my father's achievements-a task which, I assure you, was not easy. It seemed

that everything I set my hand to, my father had been there first and done it better."

"So your father's pressure eventually drove you out," Erickson prompted as Tambu paused.

"Not directly... nor intentionally," Tambu corrected. "Much of it was self-imposed pressures or

expectations. When I flunked out of college--undergraduate studies, at that--I decided to strike out on

my own rather than return home. This was done partly because I was ashamed to face my parents, and

partly to make a name for myself as myself, not as my father's son."

"I must admit you've succeeded there," the reporter smiled, shaking his head ruefully. "So you ran away

to space. Then what?"

"I worked tramp freighters for several years. I had a friend... a close friend. He was several years older

than I, and gentle as a kitten for all his strength. We worked several ships together, and probably would

still be doing just that except for the mutiny."

"The mutiny?" Erickson's attention focused on the story possibilities.

"Not in the sense you're imagining. There was no organized revolt, no dark conspiracy. It just happened.

Unfortunately, I can't give you the details without seriously breaching security... both my own and the

forces'."

"Couldn't you omit specific details and change the names?" the reporter pleaded.

"Possibly... Actually, the important event was not the mutiny, but the decision we reached shortly

thereafter."

CHAPTER ONE

The plump, red-faced man filled the small captain's cabin with his indignant anger, barely leaving room

for his adversary seated behind the desk. This was not unusual. He was Dobbs of Dobbs Electronics, a

man who fought his way to the top and who wasn't about to let anyone forget it-not his relatives, not his

employees, and definitely not the captain of some second-rate tramp freighter.

His noisy indignation was his trademark, as was his presence for this transaction. Other business owners

would sometimes relax and enjoy their success, delegating menial tasks to their subordinates, but Dobbs

was cut from different cloth. He had been there for the unloading, riding the cargo shuttle from the ship

to the spaceport planetside and back again. He had personally delivered the payment for the shipment.

Therefore it was only natural that he would feel obligated to personally handle this last detail.

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None of the proceedings had met with his approval, but this last oversight was a particular annoyance.

He was in the wrong and he knew it, but that knowledge only increased his bitterness. More than

anything, Dobbs hated to be wrong. Never one to hide his feelings, particularly his anger, Dobbs let his

displeasure show. It showed in his stiff bearing and tight lips, in his ruddy complexion, and in the abrupt

way he slammed the attaché case down on the desk.

"There it is." he announced flatly. "The balance of payment. I believe you said fifteen thousand was the

difference between the original purchase price and the price you're asking now?"

"That's not entirely correct," the man seated behind the desk said. "It constitutes the difference in

currency exchange between the time of purchase and the time of delivery."

"Semantics," the visitor countered. "It's still costing my company fifteen thousand more than we

planned."

"As you will." The man at the desk sighed. "Would you care to have a seat while I count it?"

"I'd rather stand."

The seated man had been reaching for the attaché case, but at his visitor's rebuke he hesitated, then sat

back in his chair frowning slightly.

"Mr. Dobbs... it is Dobbs isn't it? Of Dobbs Electronics?"

The visitor nodded stiffly, annoyed there had been any doubt as to his identity. He had been dealing with

this man off and on for three days now.

"You seem both upset and determined to express your annoyance by being rude. I find both positions

difficult to understand."

Dobbs started to protest, but the man at the desk continued.

"First of all, when you ordered your materials Cash On Delivery, you accepted the risk of currency-

exchange fluctuations. That is standard in any contract of that kind, but it's still good business. If you

paid in advance and our ship was attacked and taken by pirates, you'd be out the full cost of the

shipment. As it is, you have to pay only for goods delivered, even though occasionally you have to pay a

premium."

"Occasionally!" Dobbs snorted. "It seems like every time..."

"And even if I felt the system was unfair, which I don't," the man at the desk continued, "this ship is only

the means of delivery. We don't make the rules. We only shuttle materials from point A to point B and

collect the money, as instructed. In theory, we shouldn't have allowed your men to unload your cargo

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until we had collected our payment in full."

The man was leaning forward now, his eyes burning with a sudden intensity.

"In short, Mister Dobbs, I feel we've treated you fairly decently through this entire affair. If you have a

complaint, I suggest you write a letter. In the meantime, isn't it about time you came down off your high

horse and started acting like a human being?"

Dobbs started to retort angrily, then caught himself, reconsidered, and relaxed, exhaling a long breath.

Like most bullies, he would give ground when confronted by a will of equal or greater strength.

"I guess I have been making a bit of a jackass out of myself, haven't I?" he admitted ruefully.

"You have." The seated man opened the attaché case and began counting.

Dobbs responded by sinking into the offered chair and leaning forward, his elbows resting lightly in his

knees. He had discovered in the past that people were more receptive when approached at eye level.

"I guess I forgot that the captain of a freighter is a businessman same as me." he confided. "You know,

as much as we've seen each other these past couple days, I've never gotten around to asking your name.

It's Blutman, isn't it? Ulnar Blutman?"

"No, it's Eisner, Dwight Eisner. I'm the First Officer. Captain Blutman doesn't like to handle the business

end of things, so I take care of it for him."

"Isn't that a little strange?" Dobbs frowned. Usually..."

"Mr. Dobbs," Eisner sighed, "if you had treated Ulnar Blutman the way you treated me, I guarantee he

would have broken your nose and dumped your goods out the nearest airlock. He is, at best, an

unpleasant man."

"I see," Dobbs commented, taken slightly aback. "Say, are you taking cargo on before you ship out?

Maybe I can put together a shipment for you. You know, to make up for the way I've acted."

"That won't be necessary. We already have a sizable load to pick up at our next stop."

He set the case aside abruptly.

"The count tallies. Just a moment and I'll transfer it into our safe and you can have your case back."

"Keep it." Dobbs waved. "Consider it a present. How much have you taken in this run, anyway?"

"Nearly a quarter of a million. A little less than average, but it's not bad."

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file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20kruiswijk/Mijn%20documente /spaar/Robert%20L.%20Asprin%20-%20Tambu.txt"Butterrorismandviolenceasawayoflife?"thereporterpressed."Itseemsaratherharshwaytoextractalivingfromtheuniverse.""Terrorismandviolence,"Tambumused."Yes,Isupposeyoucouldcallit hat.Te...

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