The Prize: Book One Read Free

something of complete indifference to him.
     
    With the thumb of his left hand resting on his chin, the Director smoothed a fashionable, pencil-thin line of hair over his upper lip while he took in every detail of his visitor, missing nothing.  Including the drying fear-sweat on the General's brow.  Using the pretense of straightening his jacket the Director glanced down at the readouts along the edge of his desk, noting the dips and spikes on the sensor screen with satisfaction.  The intricate golden swirls and gracefully curved grain of the highly polished Tarl wood table he used for a desk provided a perfect camouflage for the finely tuned detector system buried in the surface.   Just by standing close to the table, the Director had a clear reading of their emotional state, as well as his, or her truthfulness.  In the General Tandy's case, it showed he was sufficiently nervous, which was good for the purpose at hand, yet had himself under tight control.  To the Director's eye, the General was a short, powerfully built man whose face, even after his first 'e-long' treatment spoke of long, hard service to the Emperor and Empire.  He stood at rigid attention at the other end of the table, impeccably dressed in Imperial dress grays, his peaked cap tucked neatly under his left arm as if awaiting the presentation of a medal, or a firing squad.  Like all the Tellurian Var elites, he had the classic dark brown skin, and the nose ridge that ran from the center of his high forehead to the tip of his nose, whereas the Director had neither.  If the General felt ill at ease, nothing showed on his craggy face, other than the slight sheen on his forehead, and his out-thrust jaw, looking as if he expected to take a punch at any moment.  In passing, the Director noted the multiple rows of gleaming medals on the General's chest and inwardly sneered.
     
    The General considered himself brave, suppressing rebellions and such, or orbital bombardment of a planet into a lifeless ball of glowing rock.  He may have actually killed a few people in combat, but that number paled into insignificance compared to the number the Director killed as head of Imperial Security. But that aside, this wasn't about who was the most efficient killer.
     
    "General Var Tandy” To General Tandy's ear, the Director sounded genuinely surprised by his appearance. “I'm so pleased you could take time out of your busy schedule to come and see me.”  In fact, the Director wasn't pleased, and if his information was correct, and it usually was, the General wasn't busy.
     
    He'd been in bed with the daughter of a Planetary Governor at the time his message arrived.  An underage young woman at that, and probably making promises he never intended to keep, as usual.  Thankfully, it wasn't a Governor's wife this time, and he didn't have to arrange for the said Governor and his family meet with an unfortunate air-car accident before the whole affair turned into a public scandal.
     
    The General was supposedly a Var, a member of the planet's elite class, and should know better, but, like most of his breed, he had the morals and appetite of a pig.  Even so, the General and the rest of the so-called upper class all danced to his tune, a Surl, or low born, the once crippled son of a garbage collector.  Not that he cared any longer.  He knew all the so-called highborn hated him because of his position, and the fact he didn't have a Var in front of his name.  Rightly, they attributed his present position as head of Imperial Intelligence, and Security to his ruthlessly efficiency, and by eliminating anyone that stood in his way.  Bodies of friend and foe alike littered his rise to power.
     
    “Please be seated.”  The Director intoned with an indolent wave of his hand, his voice as dry as dust, the tone as cold as a winter frost.
     
    "Thank you, Sir.  I came as quickly as possible.”  General Tandy smiled thinly nonetheless.
     
    A polite call from this