The Return of the Emperor

by Chris Bunch

  Cind consoled herself. There would be another time, with a far different result. S'be't!

  * * * *

  Kilgour was not present at the meeting, but he had arranged the entire thing. Otho was primed and almost sober.

  The Bhor chieftain had asked Sten to go for a walk with him beside the little lake in a glen not far from his headquarters. It was no accident that the lake he chose was a memorial to the Bhor casualties suffered during the Jann war.

  As they strolled around it, Otho pretended to seek Sten's advice on his plans for the Lupus Cluster. It was also no accident that all those plans assumed a future laden with a plenitude of AM2. Otho laid it on thick, just as Alex had coached him to. It was his own idea to mention also—in unsparing detail—the hardships the people of the Wolf Worlds had suffered during the reign of “those privy council clots.” Not only had extreme deprivation been caused by the shortages of AM2—which Otho assumed was intentional on the part of the council—but all business involving the mining and export of Imperium X had also ceased. He also did not exaggerate when he said he saw a time, a year or so away but no more, when the Lupus Cluster would cease to exist as an entity. One planetary system at a time would be lost, until all were as alone as they had been in the primitive days, when no being had known for certain that other living things existed beyond the upper atmosphere.

  Sten listened and not just politely. All that Otho said was true. Although what he could do about it, he didn't know. At least he could listen. As they strolled around the small lake, he began to notice that its surface shimmered like no other he had seen before. He realized it was because the bottom consisted of an immense black slab, polished to mirror-brightness. There were little imperfections pocking the slab. At first he could not make them out. He thought it might be algae. Then he realized that they were names, the names of the Bhor dead, honored there by their brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, lovers, and friends.

  He found himself near tears when he understood the meaning of the lake. Otho pretended not to notice.

  "I must speak to you frankly, my friend,” the Bhor chieftain said. Without waiting for a response, he went on. “It is no secret that you are suffering. To tell you it is only the affliction of an old soldier will not help. This I understand. To say it is no more than the swollen joints a farmer earns from long years behind a plow is equally as useless.

  "Another foolish comparison. This one involves a confession. You understand that not all Bhor choose the, ahem, Way of a Warrior."

  Sten raised an eyebrow but kept his thoughts to himself.

  "I had an uncle—who was a tailor. Do not laugh! By my father's frozen buttocks, there has never been a living thing who loved to work with cloth like this uncle I am speaking to you about. Many years passed. Pleasurable and rewarding years. And then his hands began to ache. His knuckles grew great knots. So thick and painful he could barely manipulate them. You understand what a tragedy this was to my uncle?” Sten nodded. He did.

  "Did he give up? Did he cease the toil that gave him so much pleasure? Or did he damn the eyes of the streggan ghost that afflicted him and drink until he could feel no more pain? And then—and only then—continue his work?"

  Sten said he assumed the latter. He believed stregg, named for the ancient nemesis of the Bhor, to be a powerful reliever of pain.

  "Then you would be wrong!” Otho bellowed. “He did not. He gave up. He died a bitter and broken being. And this is the shame of my family, which I swear to you I have told no other. Except, perhaps, when I was drunk. But, I swear, I have never revealed it sober. Never!"

  Sten was beginning to feel a little stupid. His friends were treating him as if he were some helpless child. Well, perhaps they were right. Maybe he did need a swift, hard kick. Poor Otho was trying so hard.

  "What is it you want?” Otho shot at him. “What?"

  "What do you want? These ... things, who rule in the place of the Emperor. You owe them a debt. Are they not your enemy? Do they not deserve your hate? Why do you treat them so shabbily? Make them happy. Kill them!"

  "I tried,” Sten said weakly.

  "So try again. Don't be my uncle with the cloth."

  Sten wanted to say that killing them would satisfy nothing. At least not in himself. But he didn't know how to explain it to his rude, rough friend.

  "You want more than death? Is that it?” his rude, rough friend asked.

  Sten thought about it. The deeper his thoughts swam, the angrier he became.

  "They are assassins,” he hissed. “Worse than that. When they killed the Emperor, they might as well have killed us all. Soon we'll all be living like animals. Sitting in front of caves. Knocking rocks together to get a bit of fire."

  "Good. You are mad,” Otho boomed. “Now think about how to get even."

  "Getting even isn't what I want,” Sten said.

  "By my mother's beard. We're back to that again. What do you want? Say it, my brother. Then we'll board my ships and see all their souls burning in hell."

  "I want ... justice,” Sten finally said. “Dammit. I want every being in the Empire to know the council's crime. Their hands are bloody. Justice, dammit. Justice!"

  "I don't believe in justice, myself,” Otho said gently. “No true Bhor does. It is a fairy story created by other, weaker species who look for higher truths because their own lot is so miserable.

  "But I am a tolerant being. If justice is your meat, load up my plate, my friend. We both shall eat.

  "Now. Decide. What form do you wish this justice to take? And by my father's frozen buttocks, if you retreat to that pool of emotional muck again, I shall personally remove your limbs. One by one."

  Sten didn't need that kind of coaxing. It suddenly came to him exactly what kind of justice would do.

  "Load the ships, my friend,” Sten said.

  Otho bellowed with delight. “By my mother's great, gnarly beard, there's a Blessing upon us. We'll drink all their souls to hell!"

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE COMPUTER WAS a bureaucrat's dream. As a pure storage center, it had few equals on the civilian market. But the key to its beauty was its method of retrieval.

  The R&D team leader had come to Kyes with the design proposal ten years before. Kyes had spent four months with the group, firing every thinkable objection and whole flurries of “supposes” to test the theoretical limits. He had not found one hole that could not be plugged with a few symbols added to the design equation.

  He had ordered the project launched. It was so costly that in another era Kyes would have automatically sought financial partners to spread the risk. Certainly he had briefly toyed with the idea. But the computer—if it could be brought on-line—would reap such enormous profits that he had dismissed the thought.

  More important than the profits was the potential influence.

  The computer was a one-of-a-kind device, with patents so basic that no other corporate being could even contemplate a copy without risking loss of fortune, family, reputation, and well-being to Kyes's battalions of attorneys. From the moment it was first proposed, he knew it would replace every system used by every government in the Empire. And the terms of its sale would be set by him and him alone.

  Once installed, his influence would grow as quickly as the newly created wealth. After all, only one firm—his—would be permitted to perform maintenance and periodic upgrading. In short, mess with Kyes and your bureaucracy would collapse. The state itself would quickly follow.

  Almost every action of any social being created a record. The first problem was what to do with that record so that others could view it. If there was only one, no problem. It could be put under a rock, the spot marked, and someone with directions could retrieve it at his leisure. But records bred more quickly than cockroaches. Hunter-gatherers rapidly ran out of space on cave walls; scribes filled libraries with parchment; clerks jammed filing cabinets until the drawers warped; and even at the height of
the Empire, it was possible for data to swamp the biggest computers.

  But that was no longer so severe a problem. More banks or linkups could always be added. Modern systems had gone so far beyond light optics that speed was also no encumbrance.

  There was one threshold, however, that no one had ever broken through: How to find one small byte of information hidden in such a great mass. The great library of legend at Alexandria reputedly employed several hundred clerks to search the shelves for the scrolls their scholarly clients requested. Days and weeks might pass before a certain scroll was located. That did not please the scholars, who were usually visiting on a beggar's budget. Their many bitter complaints survived the fire that destroyed the library. And that was in the long time past, when there was not much to know.

  In Sten's time, the problem had grown to proportions that would stagger a theoretical mathematician contemplating the navel of the Universe.

  Consider this small example: A much-maligned commissary sergeant has been ordered to improve the fare at the enlisted being's club. Morale is sadly sagging to the point that the commander herself is under the scrutiny of her superiors. Suggestions are made—many, many suggestions—that will be carried out. One of the suggestions concerns narcobeer. But not any old narcobeer. The commander recalls one brand—whose name she disremembers—that she shared with the troops on some long-forgotten battleground a century or more ago.

  That is the only hint. Nothing more.

  The commissary sergeant swings into action. Fires up his trusty computer. And the computer is asked to find that clottin’ beer. The list he receives will almost certainly include the brand favored by his commander. But it just as certainly will be buried in a million or more possibilities, with no means of narrowing the search—short of ordering every one and spending several lifetimes letting the commander taste-test each one. Although enjoyable, this solution has obvious flaws.

  With Kyes's computer it would be no trouble at all. Because it had been designed to understand that living minds had definite limits. The computer worked in twisted paths and big and little leaps of logic. Any simple explanation of this computer would be in serious error.

  However, it was basically taught to think of itself as a chess master, engaged in a game with a talented inferior. The chess master knows she can conceive of many moves, with any number of combinations, well ahead of her opponent. But, in a single game, the amateur is quite likely to win. His limited ability may become a plus under such circumstances. The chess master might as well roll dice, trying to figure out which stupid ploy the dimwit has in mind.

  Kyes's brainchild would summon the commander—or at least call up the commander's records. A series of questions would be asked: a short biography, a few details of that long-ago drinking session, for example, and certainly a medical examination to determine the reaction of the being's taste buds. Voila! The narcobeer would be located and morale boosted. The sergeant and commander would return to good graces. Happy ending through better electronic living.

  When Kyes introduced Sr. Lagguth, the chief of the AM2 commission, to his baby, the being instantly fell in love. With such a machine, he could track the path of an errant electron on a flight through a star storm.

  The next bit of information, however, made him fall just as quickly out of love. “Forget the AM2,” Kyes said. “It's not important."

  Lagguth stuttered that that was the task set for him by the privy council—that the whole future of the Empire rested on locating the Eternal Emperor's golden AM2 fleece. Even when the raid on the Honjo was completed, the resulting AM2 bonus would only stave off the inevitable for another seven months at most—not counting the terrible cost in fuel the Empire was expending to finish the theft.

  "Haven't you learned your lesson, yet?” Kyes said. “The Emperor's secret died with him. We're never going to find it. At least, not the way we've been going about it."

  Then he told Lagguth what he had in mind.

  Sr. Lagguth violently protested. He did not say he thought Kyes was mad—although that certainly might have been hinted at. But he did say he would immediately have to report the matter to the rest of the council, and he would have to get their permission to abandon his search and to take up the new one.

  Kyes did not explode, or threaten, or call the being all kinds of a fool. Instead, he rang for a clerk, and in a moment or two she appeared, wheeling in a great stack of readouts on a cart. The readouts were copies of the report Lagguth had delivered not too long before to the privy council, the one in which he said that the AM2 would be located within thirteen months.

  Kyes strolled about the room while Lagguth stared at the report, considering his many sins.

  "Would you like to change your conclusions in that report?” Kyes asked finally. Lagguth remained silent.

  "I had a team of my own people go over it. They found it ... interesting,” Kyes added. Lagguth's mouth gaped—he wanted to speak—then snapped shut again. What could he say? Every page of the report was fiction. He might as well have said two months, or six months, or—never.

  "Shall we try it my way?” Kyes purred.

  The logic was impeccable. Sr. Lagguth was convinced.

  The old woman was a delight. She wore her gray hair long and tumbling down to her waist. It glowed with health. She had a high-pitched giggle that charmed Kyes, especially since she let it ring out at his weakest jests. Even then, there was no falseness in it. Despite her age, which the investigators estimated at 155, her figure was good and she filled her orange robes in a pleasing manner. From what he knew about such things—if he had been human, Kyes assumed he would have found her still attractive. Her name was Zoran. She was the elected leader of the Cult Of Eternal Emperor, insofar as they had real leadership.

  Zoran and her group had been shadowed by his investigators for some time. They were a puzzling lot. Most of them lived ordinary lives and were employed at ordinary jobs. During that time they dressed and mostly behaved like everyone else. The only main difference was their attitude. They were absolutely cheerful beings. There seemed to be no setbacks or disappointments that disturbed them. His chief detective swore that if the immediate demise of Prime World were announced, they would giggle wildly and then go on about their duties. They would probably only add a “Last chance for the word” when they donned their robes, kicked off their shoes, and wandered the streets preaching their peculiar beliefs.

  Zoran explained away some of the misconceptions about their thinking to Kyes, giggling all the while.

  "Oh, we certainly don't think of the Eternal Emperor as a god.” Giggle. “Or, at least a god, per se.” More giggling. “He's more like an emissary—you know—” giggle—"a representative of the Holy Spheres."

  Kyes wanted to know what a Holy Sphere might be.

  "Very good question,” she said. “They're, well, round, I suppose, (giggle) And holy. (Thirty seconds of sustained giggling) Actually, it's just concept. One you accept, or don't. If you accept it—you can see it. In your mind. But, if you don't (massive giggling) ... well, of course you won't see it at all."

  Kyes laughed himself—the first real laughter from him in ages. “I suppose I'm one of the blind,” he said.

  "Oh, no. Not at all. At least, not completely,” Zoran said. “Otherwise I wouldn't be here talking to you."

  Kyes puzzled at that. How could she be so trusting? His motives were far from pure. In a mad moment—the giggling got to a being after a while—he almost confessed this. But he didn't.

  "Of course, there might be some who would say that you were thinking of using us,” the old woman said. This time, when the giggle came, Kyes jumped. “But how could you? All I have is this poor vessel.” She dramatically drew her hands down her robes, outlining her body. “And it is filled with the joy of the Holy Spheres, (small giggle) Use us if you wish, (bigger giggle) There's more than enough joy for everyone."

  "But wouldn't the joy be even greater,” Kyes answered, trying to avoid being too sm
ooth, “if more beings believed as you?"

  That time, there was no giggle from Zoran. She studied him, her eyes sharp and clear. Kyes could feel himself being measured.

  "You were correct in your assumption that my feelings are not far apart from yours,” he continued. “I know nothing about Holy Spheres. Or gods. Or godly representatives. But I do believe one thing. Very firmly. And that is the Eternal Emperor is still with us."

  Zoran was silent. Then, she said quickly, “Why is it necessary for you to believe this?"

  Kyes did not answer—at least not directly. He was starting to come up to speed with the woman.

  "You've stopped laughing,” was all he said.

  "What do you have in mind to help others hear our thoughts?” the old woman asked. “Money?” Kyes said there would be money for her order. “Temporal support?” Kyes said that as a member of the privy council, his support could hardly be thought of as anything else.

  "What do you want in return, then?” she asked.

  "Only what you would give me, even without my support,” Kyes said. “I want information. I'd like to be notified when any of your members—no matter where they reside in the Empire—report a sighting of the Emperor."

  "You're right,” Zoran said. “None of us would withhold that kind of information. It's what we're trying to convince others of, isn't it?"

  It wasn't necessary for Kyes to answer.

  "You'll be deluged,” she said after a while. “Our religion—if it can be called that—tends to attract many individuals with, shall we say, frantic minds."

  "I'm aware of that,” Kyes said.

  Zoran stared at him for a long time. Then she let loose with one of her wild, ringing giggles.

  The bargain was set.

  Kyes continued to extend his net across the dark waters. As he did so, he could not help but keep peering into the murk hoping to catch sight of the great, silver shadow of the Eternal Emperor lurking in the depths. The exercise was pointless and agonizing. He was very much like a starving being who had bought a lottery ticket. The hope the action generated seemed harmless enough. At least there was something to dream about for a while. But the hope was just a thin coating on a tragic pill.