Relic of Empire

by W. Michael Gear

  The auburn-haired woman leaned in the shadowed doorway of a service access tube that led off the side of the underground shuttle platform. A scuffed black satchel rested by her feet. Out on the platform, the crowd of business executives, services techs, professionals, and other commuters waited for the next shuttle to emerge from the EM tube. At each shift change, the platform crowded like this, but instead of the usual air of tired relief, today tension crackled in the air. Rega reeled, uncertain, afraid.

  Through narrowed amber eyes, the woman cataloged the people who waited, many bouncing anxiously on their toes, careful to keep their eyes lowered. Yes, they knew. They could feel the coming storm; but none could guess how soon it would burst upon them, or with what horrible vengeance.

  The platform for the shuttle measured sixty meters by twenty, with a series of lift tubes that rose a level to the main pedestrian corridor that ran under the central business district. The woman stepped out of the access doorway and bent down, pressing a stud on the black sialon satchel. Where it lay, the bag blended neatly with the shadows. Then she skirted the edge of the crowd as she walked toward the lift tubes, a nondescript brown coat snugged about her. More than one man openly stared at the provocative image of her shapely hips. She tied an umber scarf over her glossy hair as she entered the first lift tube.

  The field carried her to the busy pedestrian corridor that ran like a human artery beneath the multistoried office buildings. Gift shops, personal supplies vendors, caf6s, comm repair centers, delivery services, and fine restaurants lined the sides, while overhead, the hum from the square duct work of the air-conditioning was drowned by the hubbub of voices and shuffling commuters.

  The woman stepped into the ebb and flow of humanity, blending, allowing herself to drift with the current. She smiled grimly, aware of the men staring openly at her classic beauty—she drew them with the same captivation as a flashing lure drew fish in Riparian waters. One glance from her hard yellow eyes, however, and they’d hesitate, unsure, giving her time to duck away into the small crowd.

  Precisely on schedule, she arrived before a coffee shop and nodded to the young men and women who sat at the tables, waiting, sipping klav and stassa. They tensed now, reaching for packages that lay beside them. A heartbeat later, the ground shook while a deafening explosion tore through the corridor behind her as the satchel charge did its deadly work. Fire belched from the lift tubes, scattering the crowd. For the briefest of instants, people froze in stunned disbelief.

  “Death to the traitors!” one of the young women in the cafe shouted into the silence.

  “Death!” shouted another of the young men as he pulled a blaster and charged into the crowd. Pandemonium broke loose as the young people carefully goaded the riot into full fury.

  The amber-eyed woman watched grimly as the frantic mass of humanity bolted in panic. Screams of wounded and dying victims of the bomb blast vied with the shouts of the rioters and the breaking of glass and spilling merchandise.

  The amber-eyed woman placed a comm to her lips, stating simply, “Mission complete. Have transportation waiting at the pickup.” Then she slipped away among the panicked masses.

  Admiral Than Jakre tapped his laser pen on the rim of his stassa cup as he watched the big holo projector on the wall run a report Sassan spies had just forwarded from Rega. None of this made any sense.

  “Rerun that,” he ordered his comm and got to his feet, pacing back and forth before his large sandwood desk. Behind him, through his huge tactite windo:W1 the Imperial Sassan capitol rose in a magnificent series of spires and buttresses, each lit by different pastel shades to contrast with the night sky. Aircars, like thousands of fireflies, streamed down the wide boulevards that separated the military command center from Divine Sassa’s palace.

  The other monitors on Jakre’s wall displayed the status of the military buildup which had begun in response to the curious Regan buildup the spies had monitored several months ago. Tybalt had initiated the buildup, and Sassan intelligence reported that the Regans feared an alliance between Sassa and the Companions-except no such alliance existed. Sassa had no choice but to respond in kind.

  Doing so hadn’t been easy. Disentangling from freshly conquered Myklene had proved a nightmare. Logistics were snarled for want of fuel, food, medical supplies, weapons, and just about everything else-a portent of the perilous state of the economy.

  That Rega had been going to war seemed obvious, and some intelligence analysts

  had suggested that Tybalt’s assassination had stemmed, directly or indirectly, from that decision. To Jakre’s harried staff, Tybalt’s death had been a welcome reprieve, for the Sassan Empire was far too overextended to take on a new war. But what did this latest Regan trouble mean?, Jakre sipped his steaming drink as the holo began again, the Sassan intelligence agent’s voice reporting: “This morning, in defiance of all our predictions, the Deputy Ministers of Defense were implicated in procurement scandals and arrested by the Ministry of Internal Security.

  “Deprived of command control, the Regan military is effectively decapitated. Immediately after the arrests, rioting broke out in the Regan capital city, in Trystia, and in the industrial city of Vedoc. Such rioting appears to be limited to the Regan planet itself. No other reports have been posted by field agents on Ashtan, Maika, Sylene, or, most auspiciously, Targa. Analysts of the data uniformly agree that such riots are not spontaneous, but have been planned and instigated. We currently believe responsibility can be attributed to an anti-Takka faction since our people can conceive of no permutation whereby Ily Takka could profit from such unrest. As of this report, we have no indication of who or which group might be responsible for coordinating such resistance.”

  Admiral Jakre watched as mobs poured down a street, setting fire to buildings, smashing security systems, and executing public officials. In the back-ground, he could see columns of smoke rising to smudge the Regan sky.

  He shook his head at the carnage. “Their entire military command is under arrest? Don’t the fools realize what they’ve done?”

  Jakre placed his stassa cup on his desk, rubbing his protruding belly thoughtfully. “Comm, scramble my intelligence section. I want them at work within an hour. Topic: Assessment of Regan command structure paralysis. Purpose: Determination of Regan defensive abilities given the current unrest and decapitation of command structure. Based on the above, what probability of success would be enjoyed by a surprise fullscale military assault on Regan military forces within their Empire? Compute all values with and without factoring in assistance by the Companions. This project is under a Security-One clearance.”

  “Affirmative,” the comm responded.

  Jakre leaned back against his desk, eyes on the scenes of rioting. He chewed absently on his thumbnail as he watched. This is one of two things ... the stupidest mistake the Regans have ever committed-or one hell of a brilliant trap. My task is to decide whichbecause if I win, I will unite all of Free Space under His Holiness’ rule. If I fail.... Jakre shook his head to rid himself of the thought.

  “Comm. Give me a direct line to the Legate. Priority one, scramble and secure.”

  “Affirmative. “

  “If we’re wrong about this, things wouldn’t be worse if the Rotted Gods broke loose in Free Space.”

  File 7355 made the enforced captivity in the Criminal Anatomical Research Lab less of a burden to Anatolia. Jan Bokken, the head of complex security, refused to allow any of the personnel to leave the building, fearing the murderous mob that still patrolled the street below. The Regan Biological Research Center existed in a state of siege. Only the impregnable security doors protected those within from the continuing riot in the streets.

  Anatolia sat at her work station and rubbed her tired eyes. With a sense of triumph she stared at the catalog she’d just completed. The results couldn’t be denied. She had run an entire inventory of both parents’ genetics. Neither had contributed genetic material to the Fl. Her preliminary comparisons with c
ontrol populations indicated that both of her parental specimens fell within normal ranges for stable genetic populations: the male Targan, the female Etarian.

  she had little doubt of the accuracy of her conclusion. Human genetics had been thoroughly mapped in all of its subtle variations-if not totally explained.

  searchers theorized that a heterogeneous population had spread through Free Space roughly four thousand years ago. They based such a conclusion on the rate of genetic variation present in the gene pool and on the known mutation rate. Scholars still argued about the date since rare founder traits couldn’t always be distinguished from mutations. The statistical functions were elaborate though based on inconsistent data.

  But no archaeological evidence had ever been found to indicate a human presence prior to four thousand two hundred years ago.

  From whence had the founders originally come. None of the planets within the Forbidden Borders had given rise to the human species-or to many of the plants and animals that inhabited them. The great mystery of origins plagued and tantalized, but from the genetic and archaeological evidence, humanity and its various cultures had appeared full-blown to spread across Free Space.

  Anatolia gazed woodenly at her monitor, red-eyed, and, for the moment, oblivious to the perpetual nagging question of human origins. The parental genotypes were normal, the patterns lying well within the statistical mode for their respective populations. But the specimen she’d originally believed to be the 171-the offspring-lay beyond the parameters of anything ever recorded.

  Anatolia planted her elbow on the desktop and settled her chin in her palm. “Computer, cross-reference chromosome one through fifteen with the Central Catalog.

  “Working.”

  It would be a long, tedious process. Anatolia stifled a yawn and looked up at the monitor which had been patched into the security system. She could see fires burning on the street in front of the building.

  Over the years, Ily Takka had recruited the best and the brightest into her ranks in anticipation of this very moment. Now her management and staff personnel fell smoothly into place, taking over government operations and administration as she carefully removed one Regan official after another from power.

  Ily arched her spine and massaged her lower back. She sat at her desk in the opulent offices she occupied on the top floor of the Internal Security Ministry Building-an inconspicuous gray pile of masonry and steel several minutes’ journey by secret pneumatic tube away from the Emperor’s palace-where she also had quarters.

  Ily’s office might have been likened to a palace itself. Spacious and airy, it was graced with crystal skylights that caught the Regan sun and shot it through the office in rainbow hues. The carpet was the finest Ashtan weave that changed color when walked upon. The office furnishings gleamed with Etarian jewels and spiced sandwood. High porcelain arches rose to a groined ceiling of glass and translucent sialon. Her private quarters beyond the massive security doors at the far end of the office contained dining facilities, a luxurious bath and pool, as well as a garage with shuttle capabilities in addition to several high-performance aircars. The kitchen facilities in the Ministry basement retained an epicurean chef on staff and the wine cellar was paramount in the empire.

  Ily bent forward to study the large screen that dominated her desk. From that screen, she’d been monitoring the entire planet, orchestrating the riots her people expertly fomented to frighten local officials and pave the way for Sinklar’s takeover. Through her minions she’d been subtly exercising the reins of control. Rega, for the moment, remained stunned in the aftermath of Tybalt’s assassination-as if the people refused to believe their emperor was dead.

  So much the better, the easier it is to maintain control , that is, until they come to their senses and realize just how frightening the situation really is. Ily blinked her gritty eyes. Too many hours since she’d slept. The monitor changed as an editorial piece on the corruption within government ran. Like all such news, it had been written by one of her writers and syndicated through the media net. Perfect! Ily lifted her headset and sent orders. The Minister of Defense’s confession to participating in procurement fraud with the Rath family would be released now as a follow-up.

  Keep them reeling, Ily. That’s it. Don’t let the aristocracy have time to think about what’s happened. Let them stew and worry about their own graft. In the meantime, erode the confidence of the people. Not too much-but just enough.

  Ily glanced at the chronometer. She had another two days before Qyton and its convoy of troops was scheduled to arrive overhead. Two days to bring Rega to just the right boil. At that precise moment, Sinklar Fist’s veteran Targan Divisions would drop and restore order. A new military command would be slipped deftly into place, and she’d control it all.

  Ily yawned and stood up to get the circulation back into her weary muscles. She stepped over to the mirror and studied herself. Her dark eyes were bloodshot. Her gleaming sable hair glinted bluish in the light. She straightened to inspect her trim body. She wore a tight black suit that accented her thin waist, flat belly, and high breasts. Despite the way she felt, she looked damn good.

  Her comm beeped and announced, “Minister Takka? We’re ready for you.”

  Ily pressed the button on her comm, replying, “I’ll be right down.” She checked her appearance one last time, and forced spring back into her steps as she walked to the rear of her office. She touched an inset stud and a section of wall panel slipped back to reveal a grav lift.

  “Subbasement seven,” Ily ordered. The lift dropped without any sensation of motion.

  Ily stepped out into a square-framed hallway tiled in white. Her heels tapped as she made her way to a sialon doorway, palmed the lock plate, and entered. She nodded to the secretary at the desk and passed through the gray security door. The tech she expected waited uneasily, a flat monitor held in his hands.

  “This way, Minister. Everything is ready.” He gave her a fleeting smile and led her down the white-paneled hallway.

  The studio soundstage Ily entered contained a backdrop of Imperial Rega’s skyline. Five Judicial Magistrates-her people, in this case—sat sternly behind an upraised sandwood bench to one side of the room. Sophisticated holo cameras moved about the floor, their boxy receptors telescoping in and out as the yellow-suited techs in the control room checked the angle and lighting for each. Tedor Mathaiison and his Deputy Ministers of Defense, waited behind the shimmery veil of a stasis box. Ily crossed the scuffed green floor and killed the restraining field.

  “Ily? In the name of the Rotted Gods, what’s going on here?” Mathaiison asked uneasily. He looked pale, eyes slightly glassy as he took in the courtroom scene. The Minister of Defense and his Deputies had been shackled to their chairs by means of EM restraints. Makeup had been cunningly applied to accent their features in sinister ways.

  “You’ve been tried by the citizens’ tribunal.” Ily smiled her satisfaction. “You and your Deputies have confessed, and the Judicial Magistrates have passed judgment. Your sentencing and subsequent execution will be witnessed by the entire empire.”

  “Execution?” Mathaiison shot another frightened glance at the judicial bench and blinked as if to clear his thoughts. “You’re going to kill us?” A pause. “Damnation, woman! Don’t you know what that will do? Whether we’re innocent or not, you’ll be inviting disaster! The entire military will be without coordination! Sassa will jump at the opportunity! Do you hear me? You’re condemning the empire to death!”

  “Enough, Tedor. I know exactly what will happen. Tybalt’s orders are still in effect. He mobilized the military prior to his death, you know. First for Targa, and then to defend the empire from both the Sassans and the Star Butcher. None of those orders have been rescinded. “

  Mathaiison licked his lips, struggling to reach out to her. “All the more reason you need us, Ily. You’ve got to have a command control. Without our leadership, the military will be a body without a brain! My Deputies and I are the only peo
ple with experience enough to coordinate-“

  “I have a new brain-as you put it-in mind. I’ve seen better coordination than any that you and your senior staff have provided the empire in the past. Tedor, I have no use for you. “

  “But the Sassans! Don’t you understand? If they see any weakness, any hint of vulnerability, they’ll be on us like an Etarian sand tiger on a bleeding goat!”

  Ily crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. “How nice to have you bring that to my attention. I’ll handle the Sassans if they come.”

  Mathaiison leaned back, eyes closed, a look of emotional exhaustion on his graying face. “You’d destroy the empire to feed your craving for power? Worse, you’d destroy yourself. How can you expect to survive if the Sassans invade? It’s suicide!”

  One of the holo cams dropped down, hovering as it whined to bring the Defense Minister’s face into focus. Two of the white-hot spots shifted above. Beads of sweat had begun to form on Mathaiison’s brow. Ily gave him a throaty chuckle. “Dear Tedor, my old enemy, I’ve given this a lot of thought. Suicide? Me? Hardly. I have my course plotted-and the Sassans, with the luck of the blessed Gods, will fall for the bait I’m offering them.”

  Mathaiison stared incredulously. “You want them to strike? Who do you think could coordinate the military? Yourself? My Division Firsts and Fleet Commanders hate you and your Ministry. They’d rather cut their own throats then cooperate with you. “

  “They don’t have to cooperate with me.” Ily turned at a tech’s signal. “But they will with Sinklar Fist ... who will not only guard the empire-he’ll hand me Sassa and the Companions as well.”

  “Fist? He’s ... he’s an undisciplined traitor! A wild child without standing or respect for the institutions of the military. He’s-“

  “Brilliant. And the finest military mind the empire has. “

  “Putting him in charge will be like turning the military on its head.

  “That’s what I’m counting on.” Ily turned on her heel and strode to the rear as the techs motioned final countdown to broadcast.