The Return of the Emperor

by Chris Bunch

  Kyes and the others had gathered eagerly around the table. This could possibly be the most important listening session of their lives. So no one objected a whit when Lagguth's aides hauled in the mass of papers. Nor did anyone raise a brow when the preamble went a full hour.

  They were in the second hour—a second hour to a group of beings who habitually required their subordinates to sum up all thinking in three sentences or less. If they liked the three sentences, the subordinate could continue. If not, firing was a not indistinct possibility. After the first hour, the AM2 secretary had gone past firing.

  Executions were being weighed. Kyes had several nasty varieties in mind himself.

  But he had caught a different tone than the rest. There was real fear beneath all that buzz. He caught it in the nervous shufflings and newly habitual tics in Lagguth's mannerisms. Kyes stopped listening for the bottom line and started paying attention to the words. They were meaningless. Deliberate bureaucratic nonsense. That added up to stall. Kyes kept his observation to himself. Instead, he began thinking how he might use it.

  The Kraas broke first.

  The fat one cleared her throat, sounding like distant thunder, loomed her gross bulk forward, and thrust out a chin that was like a heavy-worlder's fist.

  "Yer a right bastard, mate,” she said. “Makin’ me piles bleed with all this yetcheta yetch. Me sis's arse bones'r pokin’ holes in the sitter. Get to it. Or get summun else in to do the gig!"

  Lagguth gleaped. But, it was a puzzled sort of a gleap. He knew he was in trouble. Just what not for.

  Lovett translated. “Get to the clotting point, man. What's the prog?"

  Lagguth took a deep and lonely breath. Then he painted a bright smile on his face. “I'm so sorry, gentle beings,” he said. “The scientist in me ... tsk ... tsk ... How thoughtless. In the future I shall endeavor—"

  The skinny Kraa growled. It was a shrill sound—and not nice. It had the definite note of a committed carnivore.

  "Thirteen months,” Lagguth blurted. “And that's an outside estimate."

  "So, you're telling us, that although your department has had no luck in locating the AM2, you now have an estimate of when you will find it. Is that right?” Lovett was a great one for summing up the obvious.

  "Yes, Sr. Lovett,” Lagguth said. “There can be no mistake. Within thirteen months we shall have it.” He patted the thick stack of documentation.

  "That certainly sounds promising, if true,” Malperin broke in. She stopped Lagguth's instinctive defense of his work with a wave of her hand. Malperin ruled an immense, cobbled-together conglomerate. She did not rule it well. But she had more than enough steel in her to keep it as long as she liked.

  "What is your opinion, Sr. Kyes?” she asked. Malperin dearly loved to shift discussions along, keeping her own views hidden as long as possible. It was Kyes's recent surmise that she actually had none and was waiting to see which way the wind blew before she alighted.

  "First, I would like to ask Sr. Lagguth a question,” Kyes said. “A critical one, I believe."

  Lagguth motioned for him to please ask.

  "How much AM2 do we have on hand right now?"

  Lagguth sputtered, then began a long abstract discussion. Kyes cut him off before he even reached the pass.

  "Let me rephrase,” Kyes said. “Given current usage, current rationing—how long will the AM2 last?"

  "Two years,” Lagguth answered. “No more."

  The answer jolted the room. Not because it was unexpected. But it was like having a death sentence set, knowing exactly at what moment one would cease to exist. Only Kyes was unaffected. This was a situation he was not unused to.

  "Then, if you're wrong about the thirteen months...” Malperin began.

  "Then it's bleedin’ over, mate, less'n a year from then,” the skinny Kraa broke in.

  Lagguth could do no more than nod. Only Kyes knew why the man was so frightened. It was because he was lying.

  No, not about the two-year supply of AM2. It was the first estimate that was completely fabricated. Thirteen months. Drakh! More like never. Lagguth and his department had no more idea where the Emperor had kept the AM2 than when they started more than six years before. Motive for lying? To keep his clotting head on his shoulders. Wasn't that motive enough?

  "Stay with the first figure,” Kyes purred to the skinny Kraa. “It's pointless to contemplate the leap from the chasm when you have yet to reach the edge."

  Both Kraas stared at him. Despite their brutal features, the stares were not unkind. They had learned to depend on Kyes. They had no way of knowing that from the start, his personal dilemma had forced him into the role of moderate.

  "Sr. Lagguth believes it will take thirteen months to locate the AM2 source,” Kyes said. “This may or may not be the case. But I know how we can be more certain."

  "Yeah? How's that?” Lovett asked.

  "I have a new mainframe about to go on-line. My scientists have been working on it for a number of years. We developed it specifically as a tool for archivists."

  "So?” That was the fat Kraa, the blunter of the two—if that were possible.

  "We plan to sell it to governments. It should reduce document search time by forty percent or more."

  There were murmurs around the room. They were catching Kyes's drift, and all he was saying was true. If there was a lie, it was only in his real intentions.

  "I propose that Sr. Lagguth and I join forces,” Kyes said, “assuring us of meeting his stated goal. What do you think? I am quite open to any other suggestions."

  There were none. The deal was done.

  As for the other matters—the blown Mantis mission to capture the admiral, the terrible conditions Kyes had witnessed on the streets of Prime World—they were left untouched. Kyes had gotten what he wanted.

  Only one other thing came up, and this fairly casually.

  "About this clottin’ two-year supply business,” the skinny Kraa said.

  "Yes?"

  "Me ‘n Sis, here, think we oughta try and stretch it."

  "More rationing?” Lovett asked. “I think we've just about—"

  "Naw. Don't be puttin’ words in me mush. Drakh on that."

  "What then?"

  "We take it."

  "From whom?” Kyes could not help but be drawn in by the fascinating discussion.

  "Who gives a clot?” the fat Kraa said. “Somebody that's got a whole lot of it, that's who. Can't be that many."

  "You mean steal it?” Malperin asked, also fascinated. “Just like that?"

  "Why not?” the skinny Kraa reasoned.

  Yes. They all agreed. Why not, indeed?

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER SIX

  STEN'S FIRST STEP, once clear of Smallbridge, was to go to ground. Mahoney had a planned refuge—which Sten rejected. Sten had his own very secure hideout. Where—he hoped—Kilgour, if he had been warned in time, would meet him.

  The hideout was Farwestern, and there Sten saw firsthand the effect the dwindling of AM2 and the privy council's incompetence at managing what fuel there was.

  Farwestern had been—and to a degree, still was—a shipping hub near the center of a galaxy. At one time it had provided everything a shipper could want—from shipyards to chandleries, recworlds to warehousing, hotels to emergency services, all cluttered in a system-wide assemblage of containers. “Containers” was about the most specific description that could be used, since the entrepreneurs who had gathered around Farwestern used everything from small asteroids to decommissioned and disarmed Imperial warships to house their businesses. Almost anything legal and absolutely anything illegal could be scored in and around Farwestern, including anonymity.

  Years earlier Sten and Alex, on one of their Mantis team missions, had run through Farwestern. They found its cheerful anarchy to their liking. Most especially, they fell in love with a small planetoid named Poppajoe. Poppajoe was jointly owned by a pair of rogues named Moretti and Manetti.
Having acquired fortunes elsewhere under almost certainly shadowy circumstances, they had discovered Farwestern and decided that there was their home. The question was: what service could they provide that wasn't available? The answer was luxury and invisibility.

  They reasoned that there would be beings passing through who would want to be well taken care of and might prefer that their presence not be broadcast. This applied to criminals as well as to executives on their way to make a deal best kept secret until the stock manipulations were complete.

  Moretti and Manetti had thrived in peace. In the recent war they had doubled their fortunes. Now times were a little hard. Not bad enough to drive them under, but ticklish. They survived because they were owed so many favors by so many beings, from magnates to tramp skippers.

  There were still people who needed the shadows. Moretti and Manetti catered to them. All room entrances were individual. Guests could dine publicly, or remain in their suites. Privacy was guaranteed. Their food was still the finest to be found—fine and simple, from Earth-steak to jellied hypoornin served in its own atmosphere and gravity.

  When Sten and Kilgour had run across Poppajoe, they had made a very quiet resolution that if things ever got Very Very Hairy, this would be their private rendezvous point.

  As Sten's ship entered the Farwestern system, neither he nor Mahoney looked particularly military. As a matter of fact, neither looked particularly anything.

  Beings frequently go to too much trouble when they decide, for whatever reason, that they would rather not be recognized as themselves. All that is necessary—unless the person is unfortunately gifted with the face of a matinee idol or an abnormal body—is to appear (A) unlike who they really are; and (B) like no one in particular. Dress neither poorly nor expensively. Eat what everyone else is eating. Travel neither first class nor steerage. Try to become that mythical entity, the average citizen. Mercury Corps called the tactic, for some unknown reason, a “Great Lorenzo."

  Sten and Mahoney were now businessmen, successful enough for their corporation to have provided them with fuel and a ship, but not so successful that they had their own pilot, and the ship was a little rundown at the edges. Three days’ work at a smuggler's conversion yard had turned Sten's gleaming white yacht into just another commercial/private—but only as long as no one looked at the engines or the com room, or figured out that some of the compartments were much tinier than they should have been, and that behind those bulkheads were enough arms to outfit a small army.

  Mahoney had worried that the ship could be traced by its numbers. Sten was glad to find that his ex-boss did not know everything. The ship and every serial-numbered item on it was trebly sterile—another product of Sten's professional paranoia that was now paying off.

  So they arrived on Poppajoe and were greeted by Messrs. Moretti and Manetti as if they were both long-lost cousins and complete but respected strangers.

  Poppajoe may have been surviving, but Farwestern was not. Commercial travel was a trickle. Between the fuel shortages and the cutbacks in the military, even Imperial ships were a rarity. A lot of orbital stations had sealed their ports, and their people had gone dirtside to one of Farwestern's planets or moved on.

  "But we will make it,” Moretti explained. “We're like the old mining town that struck it rich. A group of émigrés moved in and discovered that no one likes to do his own washing. They were willing to provide the services. Eventually the minerals played out and the miners headed for the next strike. However, the laundrybeings stayed—and all became millionaires doing each other's laundry."

  He found that quite funny. Sten did not. What he saw, and had seen from the time he and Mahoney had fled Smallbridge, was the slow grinding down of the Empire. He had felt it going on even in his isolation on Smallbridge, but witnessing it was another thing. Beingkind was pulling in its horns—or was being forced to. Entropy was well and good as a thermodynamic principle. As a social phenomenon it was damned scary.

  Mahoney gave him as big a picture as he could—which was hardly complete, he admitted. Worlds, systems, clusters, even some galaxies had slipped out of contact. By choice, rejecting the hamwitted leadership of the council? By war? By—barely conceivable—disease?

  As Sten well knew, AM2 had been the skein holding the Empire together. Without the shattering energy release of Anti-Matter Two, star drives were almost impossible to power. And of course, since AM2 had been very inexpensive—price determined by the Emperor—and fairly available—depending on the Emperor, once more—it was easy to take the lazy way out and run anything and everything on the substance. Interstellar communications ... weaponry ... factories ... manufacturing ... the list ran on.

  When the Emperor was murdered the supply of AM2 stopped. Sten had found that hard to swallow the first time Mahoney had said it. He was still having trouble. Back on Smallbridge, he had assumed that the privy council—for profiteering reasons of their own, as well as base incompetency—had merely been keeping the supply at a trickle.

  "Not true,” Mahoney had said. “They haven't a clue to where the goodies are. That's why the council wanted to pick you up—and anybody else who might've had a private beer with the Emperor—then gently loosen your toenails until you told them The Secret."

  "They're clottin’ mad."

  "So they are. Consider this, boy. The entire universe is bonkers,” Mahoney said. “Except for me and thee. Heh ... heh ... heh ... and I'll be slippin’ slowly away in a bit if you don't find a bottle and uncap it."

  Sten followed orders. He drank—heavily—from the bottle before handing it to Ian.

  "Ring down for another one. If your prog circuits are DNCing now, it will get far worse."

  Again, Sten followed orders. “Okay, Mahoney. We are now on the thin edge."

  Mahoney chortled. “Not even close yet, boy. But proceed."

  There was a tap at the door. “Y'r order, sir."

  Mahoney was on his feet, a pistol snaking out of his sleeve. “A little too efficient.” He moved toward the door.

  "Relax, Fleet Marshal,” Sten said dryly. Then turned to address the door: “It's open, Mr. Kilgour."

  After a pause, the door came open, and Alex entered pushing a drink tray and wearing a disappointed expression.

  "Did I noo hae y'goin't frae e'en a second?” he asked hopefully.

  "You gotta do something about the way you talk, man."

  "Thae's some think it charmin',” Alex said, mock-hurt.

  Sten and Alex looked at one another.

  "How close did they get to you?” Sten asked.

  Kilgour told them of the near-ambush and the battle in the icy streets.

  "Ah'm assum't,” he said, “frae the fact th’ warnin’ wae in gen'ral code, nae whae Sten and I hae set up, y're responsible f'r tippin’ me th’ wink."

  "I was,” Mahoney said.

  "Ah'm also assum't, sir, thae's reason beyon’ y'r fas'nation wi’ m’ girlish legs an’ giggle. Who d'ye want iced?"

  "Quick thinking, Mr. Kilgour. But sit down. You too, Admiral. The debriefing—and the plan—will take awhile. You'll guess the target—correction, targets—as I go along. The suspense will be good for you."

  Mahoney began with what had happened to him from the day of the Emperor's funeral, when he had looked at the Council of Five standing on the grassy knoll that was the Emperor's grave and knew that he was looking at five assassins.

  He hesitated, then told them the impossible part. After the funeral, he had gone into the Emperor's study, dug out a bottle of the vile swill the Emperor called Scotch, and planned a quiet, private farewell toast. Stuck to the bottle was a handwritten note:

  * * * *

  "Stick around, Ian. I'll be right back."

  * * * *

  It was in the handwriting of the Eternal Emperor.

  Mahoney stopped, expecting complete disbelief. He got it, masked on both men's faces by expressions of bright interest—and a slow shift by Sten toward Mahoney's gun-hand.

 
"That's—very interesting, Fleet Marshal. Sir. How do you suppose it got there? Are you saying the man who got assassinated was a double?"

  "No. That was the Emperor."

  "So he somehow survived getting shot a dozen or so times and then being blown up?"

  "Don't clot around, Sten. He was dead."

  "Ah. Soo he ris't oot'n th’ grave't’ leave ye a wee love note?” said Alex.

  "Again, no. He must've left instructions with one of the Gurkkhas. Or a palace servant. I asked. Nobody knew anything."

  "Let's ignore how the note got there for a sec, Ian. Are you listening to what you've just been saying? Either you're mad—or else you've joined up with that cult that goes around saying the Emperor has lived forever. And remembering six years plus is a long time for you just to be sticking around. Which is how long it's been."

  "Neither one—or maybe I am bonkers. But will you keep listening?"

  "'Mought's well. Whae's time't’ a clottin’ hog?” Kilgour said. He poured himself a drink of quill—but still kept a wary eye on Mahoney.

  Mahoney went on. He had made his own plans that day. He was going after the privy council.

  "Did you consider maybe they'd think you were the type to carry a grudge?” Sten asked.

  "I did—and covered my ass."

  Mahoney put in for early retirement. The privy council, in the mad rush to get rid of the bloated and incredibly expensive military after the Tahn wars, was more than willing to let anyone and everyone out, few questions asked. Sten nodded—that was exactly how he and Kilgour had been able to slip into retirement and obscurity.

  The council was especially happy to be rid of Mahoney, who was not only the Emperor's best-loved Fleet Marshal, architect of victory, but also once head of Mercury Corps—Imperial Intelligence—for many, many years.

  "But I didn't want them to think I was going to create any mischief. I found a cover."

  Mahoney's cover, loudly announced, was that he planned to do a complete biography of the Eternal Emperor, the greatest man who ever lived. That plan fit quite well into the council's martyr-building.