The Return of the Emperor

by Chris Bunch

  "What I was, of course, doing was building my stone bucket. Hell if I knew what I would do with it—but I had to do it."

  Mahoney dived into the archives—he planned to spend a year or so researching The Early Years. By then he figured the council would have lost interest in him, and he could go for the real target. A little sheepishly, he told Sten and Alex that he had always loved raw research. Maybe—if things had been different, and he had not come from a military family—he would have ended up poking through archives trying to figure out The Compleat History of the Fork. Or something.

  He was not the first, the hundredth, or the millionth person to bio the Emperor. But he discovered something interesting. All of the bios were crocks.

  "So what?” Sten asked, disinterested. “If you were up there on the right hand of God, wouldn't you want everybody to make nice on you?"

  "That is not what I meant.” Mahoney said. He had seen a pattern. Biographers were encouraged to write about the Emperor. However, they were mostly of the type who would work hard to either find Deep-seated Humanity in Tamerlane, or else write a psychological biography of the poet Homer.

  "Let's say there might have been a great number of sloppy historians. But somehow their work was still encouraged. They won the big contracts. Their fiche were picked up for the livies. And so on and so forth.

  "I'm telling you, lads, no one was really encouraged to look at source material—that hasn't somehow, and I quote, vanished in the mists of time, end quote."

  "So what was our late leader trying to hide?"

  "Damned near everything, from where he came from to how he got where he is. You might spend a lifetime daring insanity trying to make sense out of the seventeen or eighteen thousand versions of events, each of them seemingly given the Emperor's imprimatur.

  "I'll just mention two of the murkiest areas, besides where the clot the AM2 is. First is that the son of a bitch is—or was, anyway, immortal."

  "Drakh. No such animal."

  "Believe it. And the second thing is—he's been killed before."

  "But you just said—"

  "I know what I just said. He's died before. Been killed. Various ways. Several accidents. At least two assassinations."

  "And you won't accept a double."

  "I will not. But here is what happened, at least concerning the incidents I was able to document: First, the Emperor dies. Second, there is, immediately afterward, a big goddamned explosion, destroying the body and anything around. Just like that bomb that went off after Chapelle killed the Emperor."

  "Every time?"

  "Everyone I can find. And then—the AM2 stops. Wham. Just like that.

  "Then the Emperor comes back. As does the AM2. And things start back to normal."

  "Ian, now you've got me playing loony games on your turf,” Sten said. “Okay. How long does he usually vanish? Not that I am believing one damned word of what you are saying."

  Mahoney looked worried. “Accident—perhaps three or four months. Murder—as long as a year or two. Maybe time enough for people to realize how much they need him."

  "Six years an’ more hae gone noo,” Alex pointed out.

  "I know."

  "But you still believe the Eternal Emperor is gonna appear in a pink cloud or some kind of clottin’ seashell in the surf and the world will be happy and gay once more?” Sten scoffed.

  "You don't believe me,” Mahoney said, pouring himself a drink. “Would it help if I let you go through the files? I have them hidden away."

  "No. I still wouldn't believe you. But set that aside. What else did you get?"

  "I worked forward. And I got lucky, indeed. Remember your friend Haines?"

  Sten did. She had been a homicide cop, and she and Sten had been up to their elbows unraveling the strange assassination plot that had inadvertently sparked the recent Tahn wars. She and Sten had also been lovers.

  "She's still a cop. She's still on Prime. Homicide chief now,” Mahoney told Sten.

  He had gone to her for permission to access the files on Chapelle, the Emperor's assassin. He'd had the highest clearances—volume one of the biography had been published to great acclaim. “Complete tissue, of course,” he assured them.

  "Anyway, your Haines. She's still as honest as ever, boy."

  Mahoney had asked some questions—and one day Haines had gotten the idea that the ex-Intelligence head was not in his dotage, indulging a private passion.

  "She said the only reason she was doing it is because you'd spoken well of me. For a, ahem, clottin’ general. You remember a young lad named Volmer?"

  Sten did. Volmer was a publishing baron—or, more correctly, the waffling heir to a media empire. Part of the privy council. Murdered one night outside a tawdry ambisexual cruising bar in the port city of Soward. The released story was that he had been planning a series on the corruption around the war effort. A more cynical—and popular—version was that Volmer liked his sex rough and strange and had picked up the wrong hustler.

  Haines, Mahoney said, had something different. She had been stalking a contract killer for about a year—a professional. She didn't give a damn about a triggerman, but wanted to know who had hired him. She got him—and with enough evidence concerning the disappearance of a gang boss to get at least an indictment.

  The young man evidently agreed with Haines as to the worth of the evidence. He offered to make a deal. Haines thought that a wonderful idea. She might not care, particularly, if underworld types slaughtered each other on a daily basis. But when they kept leaving the bodies out on the street to worry the citizens—then action had to be taken.

  The man offered her something better. He confessed that he had killed Volmer. The word had been that the freako was an undercover type. There had been an open contract. The killer had filled it—and then found out later whom he had touched.

  Haines wanted to know who had paid. The man named an underworld boss, now deceased. Haines punted him back to his cell, told him to think about corroborative evidence, and tried to figure out what it all meant. The assassin “suicided” in his cell that night.

  "That's all she had?"

  "That's all she had."

  "So who terminated Volmer?"

  "Perhaps his brothers on the privy council? Maybe Volmer wasn't going along with the program? I don't know—yet. But there was the first member of the council dead.

  "Then Sullamora. Blown up with the Emperor.

  "Something funny about that lone hit man, Chapelle. He came out of Spaceport Control. I did a little research on him, as well. Seems he felt the Emperor was after him personally."

  "Yeah. I saw the livies, too. A head case."

  "He was that. But he was set up to become one. Somebody—somebody who could have played with his career—arranged for him to get his face shoved in it every time he turned around. To this day nobody knows, for instance, why he suddenly lost his job and ended up on bum row.

  "Spaceport Control. Ports, shipping—that was Sullamora's responsibility on the privy council. And now he's dead, too."

  Sten started to pour himself another drink, then thought better of it and walked to the viewpanel and stared out.

  "All right, Mahoney. You've got some interesting things. Maybe. And maybe you're a head case like this Chapelle. Maybe all you've got is that thieves fall out. A Mantis op on his second run could tell you that.

  "Fill in the blanks. What happened next? And come to think about it, what happens next?"

  Mahoney told them. About the time he had talked to Haines, he had started feeling a bit insecure. The council, he had realized, had not a clue as to the source of AM2. Mahoney thought it was a matter of time before they started rounding up the usual suspects and probing their brains for this had-to-be-somewhere secret.

  "Brainscan's an uncomfortable feeling, I understand. Frequently fatal. So I died. Laundered my investments by somehow getting swindled. Paid the swindler ten percent of the money he stole. Then I drowned. A stupid boating accident. Th
ere were whispers that it was because I'd lost my entire fortune."

  Dead and invisible, Mahoney went to work. Part and parcel of his research was looking up all his old service friends, anyone who might have had any knowledge of the Emperor.

  "Many of them still serve. And most of them think we are heading for absolute chaos unless the council is removed."

  Sten and Kilgour exchanged looks. Removed. Yes.

  "Then ... then we have access to everything the Emperor left on Prime. I know—knew—that man. He would have hidden the secret somewhere. Hell, for all I know, in one of those glue pots he used trying to make a gutter."

  "Guitar,” Sten corrected absently.

  "Because that's the only chance we have,” Mahoney said. “Probably you were right. Probably I am quite mad believing the Emperor will return. Maybe that he ever did. Indulge an old man's eccentricity.

  "But if someone does not do something—this Empire, which maybe it's done things wrong, and even some evils, has still held civilization together for two millennia and longer.

  "If nothing's done, it will all vanish in a few lifetimes."

  Sten was looking closely at Mahoney—a not especially friendly look.

  "So you get me out of harm's way, get word to Kilgour. And all you want in return is for us to kill the five beings who happen to rule the known universe."

  Mahoney chose not to see the sarcasm. “Exactly. No impeachments. No trials. No confusion. Which is why I wanted you, Sten. This is the linchpin to the whole operation. You've done it before. In clean, out clean—with five bodies behind you."

  * * * *

  Sten and Alex sat, wordless, staring out the plate into deep space. They had told Mahoney they had to talk, then thrown him out of their quarters. There had not been much talk. They had capped the alk and called for caff.

  Sten ordered his thoughts. Could he somehow take out the privy council? Yes, his Mantis arrogance said. Maybe. It was the “out clean” that bothered him. Sten had always agreed with his first basic sergeant, who had said he wanted soldiers who would “help the soldier on the other side die for his country."

  The privy council had tried to kill him—and probably grabbed all of his wealth and pauperized him as well. So? Credits were not important. They could be made as well as lost. As far as the killing—once the shooting had stopped, Sten, who prided himself as being a professional, had bought narcobeers for his ex-enemies on many occasions.

  Were the privy council members evil—which would somehow justify their deaths? Define evil, he thought. Evil is ... what does not work.

  Thus, another list:

  Was the privy council incompetent? Certainly. Especially if one believed what Mahoney had said. Once more, So? The worlds Sten had lived in, from Vulcan to the Imperial Military itself, were more often than not governed by incompetents.

  The Empire was running down. For a third time, So? Sten, veteran of a hundred battles and a thousand-plus worlds, could not visualize that amorphous thing called an Empire.

  Another list. This time, a short one.

  All Sten had known—like his father and his father before him—was The Eternal Emperor. That, in fact, was what Sten thought of when he considered the Empire.

  He had sworn an oath. Sworn it twice, in fact, “...to defend the Eternal Emperor and the Empire with your life ... to obey lawful orders given you and to honor and follow the traditions of the Imperial Guard as the Empire requires.” The first had been administered after he had been cold-cocked by Mahoney, eons before, back on Vulcan. But he had retaken the oath when they had commissioned him.

  And he had meant it.

  If the council members had tried to kill the Emperor—and failed—would he have considered it his duty to hunt them down and, if necessary, kill them? Of course. And did he believe the privy council had killed the Emperor? Yes. Absolutely.

  He thought of an old Tahn proverb: “Duty is heavier than lead, death lighter than a feather.” It did not help.

  That oath still stood, as did the duty. Sten felt somewhat embarrassed. He looked across at Kilgour and cleared his throat. Such were not things to be said aloud.

  Kilgour was avoiding Sten's glance. “Ae course, thae's th’ option ae findin't ae deep, rich hole, pullin’ it in behind us, an’ lettin’ the universe swing,” he said suddenly.

  "I'd just as soon not spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder."

  "Y'lack confidence, lad. We c'd do't. Nae problem. But if we did, m'mither'd nae hae aught to brag on, come market day. So. Empire-topplin’ it is? Sten?"

  Sten managed a grin. Better this way. Let the real reasons stay inside. He stuck out his hand.

  "Nae, we c'n gie lushed wi’ a clear conscience,” Kilgour sighed. He groped for a bottle.

  "Ah noo ken whae Ah nae lik't thae livies. Here's a braw decision made. In ae hotel flat by a fat man dressed like ae commercial traveler an’ a wee lad resemblin't ae gig'lo. Nae a sword, gleamin't armor or wavin't banner amongst us, Whae a world.” He drank.

  "Nae. How filthy d’ we scrag thae’ bastards?"

  So Sten and Kilgour went into partnership with an ex-Fleet Marshal who both of them considered, privately, was a bit round the bend.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE MAN STARED at the screen. His hands remained folded in his lap.

  "You have not begun the test,” the Voice—for he had begun to capitalize it in his mind—accused.

  "What happens if I fail to obey?"

  "Information will not be provided. Begin the test."

  "I shall not."

  "Do you have a reason?"

  "I have already taken it. Three—no, four sleep periods ago."

  "That is correct. Test complete."

  The screen blanked.

  "All test results have been assimilated. Subject determined within acceptable parameters,” the Voice said. Very odd. It was the first time It had spoken as if to someone other than the man.

  "You are ready for the next stage,” It told him.

  "I have some questions."

  "You may ask. Answers may or may not be provided."

  "I am on a ship. Is there anyone else on board?"

  "No."

  "You are a synthesized voice?"

  "Self-evident."

  "You said moments ago that I was ... within acceptable parameters. What would have happened were I not?"

  "Answer determined not to be in your best interests."

  "I shall try another way. What constraints did your programmer limit you to?"

  "Answers determined not to be in your best interests."

  "Thank you. You answered, however. Another question. Who programmed you?"

  Silence except for ship hum.

  "Answer will become self-evident within a short period of time,” the Voice said finally. “Those are questions enough."

  A previously sealed panel opened.

  "You will enter that passage. At its end will be a ship. You will board and prepare yourself for takeoff. You may issue two orders, if you feel you know the answers. If you do not, recommendations will be offered.

  "First. Should the machines be reactivated?"

  "What machines?"

  "The recommendation is that they should—given recent circumstances."

  "Recommendation accepted. I guess."

  "Second. Should transshipment begin? The recommendation is it should not until you progress further."

  "Accepted. Transshipment of what? And whatever it is, how do I communicate with you?"

  "Both answers will become self-evident. Proceed to the ship now."

  The man walked down the passageway. At the end, as promised, was the entryway to a small ship. He entered.

  Again, the ship was constructed for one person.

  He seated himself in a reclining couch. Behind him, the hatch slid shut. He felt motion: stardrive.

  "This is a final communication,” the Voice said suddenly. “There are fo
ur separate automated navigation systems on this ship. Each of them is preset for a different destination. On reaching each destination that system will self-destruct and the next system will activate.

  "Do not be alarmed.

  "Do not attempt to interfere with this system.

  "Your final destination and debarkation point will be obvious.

  "Good-bye. Good luck."

  The man jolted. The fine hair at the back of his neck lifted.

  Good luck? From a machine?

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE HONJO WERE a small but firmly committed culture of traders. Their antecedents went back to the early days of the Empire. They populated a system some light-years from Durer, the site of one of the famous Tahn war battles. Their home base was a less than desirable cluster of stars and planets with little in the way of commercially important resources.

  This was no hindrance to the Honjo. Their distant, oceangoing ancestors had plied the island trades, and they were ancient masters at the art of playing middlebeing for any product. Their ships were of their own design, although constructed in the factories Sullamora had once owned. They were light, a bit boxy, and made up for lack of speed by being able to cheaply deal with just about any atmosphere where there might be goods to buy or sell.

  The Honjo were also among the most frugal beings in the Empire. Since their resources were so few, they stockpiled and guarded them jealously. Especially AM2.

  That had been a minor source of irritation to the Eternal Emperor from time to time. Since the price was pegged on supply—which he controlled—he was always just a bit touchy about the large amount they kept squirreled away. Whenever he let the price drop, the Honjo were the first in line to buy more. But it was only a petty irritation, and after wrangling with the thickheaded beings a few times, he let it slide. The Emperor had learned that it was usually best to ignore eccentrics. The Honjo performed well as traders, they were mostly honest, and their system was so small as to be nearly meaningless.

  One other thing about the Honjo. They were always quite willing to take offense. Especially when it involved what they perceived as their own property. In short, if pressed, they would fight. They tended not to think about the odds.