Ambit
A Thursday Prompt story
© 2022 by Walter Reimer
(Stanislaus Coon, Ivar Vargsson and the Commander are courtesy of E.O. Costello.)

Prompt: broad

Thumbnail art by  technicolor_pie, color by  Major Matt Mason



There are times when I can almost feel my late compatriot, Ivar Vargsson.

Sometimes I can almost catch a trace of wolf-scent.

My therapy’s been progressing very well since I and other prisoners of the recent war were repatriated, although Dr. Nushaar has told me that I have merely redirected my madness into a mental simulacrum of Ivar.

At least I’m not laughing uncontrollably, and the doctor has told me that having an imaginary companion won’t spill any secrets.

I can almost hear Ivar saying, “Tut, dear Stanislaus. If this be madness, yet there is method to it. And I was never one to betray a confidence.”

Which is good, as my current assignment is somewhat dodgy.

Perhaps I should backtrack to a few days ago. I had been summoned to the office of Commander the Lord MacRuari of That Ilk, my commanding officer in Directorate III (Counterintelligence), and after the usual exchange of greetings followed by a small glass of the Commander’s supply of single malt, the buck said, “I have a field assignment in mind for you, Captain.”

I’m sure I looked very surprised. Since my return to the Terran Confederacy – er, Terran Empire – I had been relegated to a desk. Still, I kept silence and awaited developments.

The MacRuari studied the remainder of the whisky in his glass and said, “This comes from the Admiral-General himself, through ‘M,’ and requires a certain . . . discretion.”

‘M’ was the Empire’s Director of Intelligence, and the roebuck was both mine and the Commander’s superior. Not ultimate superior, of course; that was an eleven year old leopard dignified with the title of Emperor. Admiral-General Gromov, the tiger who commanded the military, was nominally ‘M’s boss. “Discretion, Sir?” I asked.

The buck gave me a mirthless smile. “Yes. ‘M’ said that it called for a ‘feline touch.’” He saw my ears flatten slightly at the rather speciesist remark. “His words, Captain, not mine. Still, he asked for you specifically, feeling that your background in police investigations and your handling of the Wilk matter can get the job done.”

I frowned. The Wilk matter had been a successful failure, in my opinion, and I had made no bones about that. “And what is the job, Sir?”

The MacRuari placed his glass on his desk and sat back. “There is a certain person,” he said carefully, “on the Emperor’s family estate on Maratha, that has attracted the Admiral-General’s attention. This person has the ear of the Emperor, but something about him has raised some misgivings on Gromov’s part.” He picked up a dossier and passed it to me before returning to his whisky while I glanced at the materials in the nondescript gray folder.

My ears perked. “A gardener?”

The buck nodded. “By all outward indications, a completely innocuous character.”

I nodded. Most intelligence agents cultivated that kind of appearance, and those who didn’t (at least in the real world) tended to end up dead very quickly. My namesake in the entertainment show Secret Service Fur tended to be flashy, but even his plot armor failed him eventually.

“Captain,” and I looked up from the dossier to see the Commander gazing at me. “This calls for discretion, as it requires you to be very close to the Throne, but you will by necessity have the widest possible scope to your investigation. Find out who this person is, and whether he is a danger to the Empire’s security.”

In the back of my mind, I could almost hear Ivar saying, “Tread softly, good Stanislaus. A misstep might be . . . unfortunate.”

Like I needed to be reminded.

My glass was empty, so I got to my feet. “I’ll get started straightaway, Sir.”