The Return of the Emperor

by Chris Bunch

  The hordes of unemployed beings had put big brass knuckles on his fists. He had been slugging it out with Yelad for more than six months. But now, two weeks before the election, he had not been able to deliver a knockout. If he couldn't, Kenna's long run was over—unless there was a miracle. He was hoping that Raschid was that miracle. The more they talked, the surer he became.

  At one point Raschid had quizzed him about the credit situation. How full were Kenna's campaign coffers? Kenna said he had sufficient. Raschid shook his head and advised him to get more, much more. Kenna asked why.

  "Unruh's First Law,” Raschid said. “Money is the mother's milk of politics."

  The answer spoke volumes. This man was no dry political-science scholar. Kenna had seen too many elections lost with that type. Raschid was obviously an expert street politician who knew how to play the game from the top right down to the gutter.

  Kenna found it easy to be candid with Raschid, because ... he knew, dammit. The guy knew! The next question, however, threw him into temporary orbit.

  "Why are you telling me all this?” Raschid asked. “What do you expect me to do about it? I'm just a ship's cook. A mutinous one in some lights."

  "Come on,” Kanna sputtered. “You can drop that. You're among friends, here. Besides, I've already been filled in. I knew you were on your way."

  "Who told you?” Raschid asked.

  Kenna figured it was a try on—so he bit. “It wasn't anyone I could name right out,” he said. “You know that as well as I do. I got it from ... back channels. We were advised the Santana was inbound. With a cargo I'd be a fool not to inspect. More importantly, I was told there would be a man on board posing as the ship's cook. And that he was the absolute best there was in political strategy.

  "I can't tell you how we all reacted here. To know that some very important outsiders were with us. And that rescue was on its way."

  Raschid considered. For some reason, it all made sense to him. Although he wondered why those outsiders had not informed him as well. He buried that. It was another test, maybe the final one.

  "Okay,” Raschid said. “You got your boy. I'm on board.” Kenna breathed a heavy sigh of relief. “Who else is in the race?” Raschid asked.

  "Only one other,” Kenna said. “Solon Walsh. And he doesn't have a chance. Although the guy's as hand-some a pol as has come along for three forevers. But he's young. And he's stupid."

  "What's his bit?"

  "Reform,” Kenna said dryly. “He's trying to steal the march from me, I guess. Because that's my main platform. Walsh can't seem to get any ideas of his own."

  "He's probably got Yelad behind him,” Raschid said. “But real quiet. Walsh is intended to bleed off support from you."

  Kenna was startled, then comforted again. It was just the way he had seen it. “All right ... here's how we go,” Raschid said. “We need three things.

  "First, we need a Dummy. Second, an Issue."

  He took a long swallow from the brandy glass Kenna had been constantly filling since the meeting began.

  "What's the third?” Kenna asked.

  "Easy,” Raschid said. “Then we steal the election."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  THE TINY AND the meek may never inherit the earth—but they can sometimes rock it worse than the most catastrophic earthquake.

  Case in point: Napoleon's hemorrhoids. He'd slept poorly the night before a battle, and napped the next day. Twenty-five thousand of his soldiers died, and he was no longer an Emperor.

  Three woman cipher clerks conspired. The secrets of Earth's Third Reich were revealed. At least ten million Germans died.

  And Zoran mentioned, with giggles, what one of her “frantic minds” had reported. There was a new shrine, she said, shaking her head at the credulity of some of her followers. Not a mountaintop where the Eternal Emperor had appeared to the faithful, nor a large pile of crutches, abandoned after he had worked miracles.

  "Loaves and fishes"—giggle—"might be the comparison,” she said. Kyes was blank. “Oh. My apologies,” she said. “There was an ancient cult on Earth. Called Christers. That was one of their miracles.

  "My frantic mind has less than that.

  "Eggs"—large giggle—"for pity's sakes. Not millions of them, and not used to feed the starving. But sold."

  There was a small spaceport restaurant, on a world called Yongjukl. “I could not find it in my atlas, but I suppose it is out there somewhere.” According to Zoran's acolyte, it served food exactly like that the Eternal Emperor favored. Using his exact recipes, “Or at least."

  Zoran added, “those that were reported before the Eternal One chose to absent himself for a period.

  "A minor ... fetish"—giggle—"of ours? I have cooked and enjoyed some of those recipes myself."

  Kyes interest was sparked—the Eternal Emperor, indeed, fancied himself a gourmet chef. But if Zoran had cooked some of his recipes ... that did not compute. Had to be a restaurateur with a new gimmick.

  Ah, but no, Zoran continued. These recipes had been taught to the owner by a mysterious chef who had appeared, worked for a few periods, then disappeared.

  "My frantic one takes this as a precursor. Of course, he swears the descriptions of this mysterious man in the white apron are exactly what you would expect a man seeking miracles to say. Oh, well. When the Emperor does choose to return from his time with the Holy Spheres, I question whether it would be in a greasy spoon."

  Kyes was in contact with Yongjukl. He ordered its most skilled and subtle psychologists to talk to the cult member—and to any other customers of that restaurant who might have seen the cook.

  The descriptions varied, of course, but overall they fit the Eternal Emperor exactly. Kyes had the restaurant's owner questioned.

  The owner refused to cooperate. Instead, he threw the investigators out of his dive—named, Kyes noted, the Last Blast.

  Kyes ordered the owner, a human male named Pattipong, followed. He could not be. He changed clothes and washed before shutting down, so electronic tracers did not work. Surveillance experts, singly and teamed, tried to track him. Pattipong lost them all, every time, and reappeared the next morning to reopen the Last Blast, smiling as if nothing had happened and he was completely oblivious to the attentions.

  Kyes started to order Pattipong's arrest but stopped himself. You are on to something. Finally: Do not panic. Do not rush to judgment.

  He told Lagguth and the computer team to load and analyze all events occurring on that world within the last six years, concentrating on the last few months. If the mysterious cook was the Emperor, he would not have used Yongjukl as a base for very long. Or so Kyes thought—with no logic behind him.

  The computer found a mansion, or the remains of a mansion. It had been, for some generations, among the holdings of a very rich, very mysterious offworld family who never visited their estate. Recently, however, a ship had landed on the grounds and one man had gotten off. The ship had immediately lifted. The man was the family's heir apparent. He had stayed in seclusion for a brief period of time and then disappeared. The mansion's staff had been paid off, the mansion torn down, and the grounds donated to the government. The mansion—and who owned it—had already been a favorite mystery story for the local media. Its destruction created a one-day wonder. But there was no more information, and the story disappeared.

  A mansion, Kyes thought excitedly. Equipped with the most elaborate library and computer. That was enough. He ordered Pattipong's arrest. Two of Yongjukl's most skilled operatives went out to seize the tiny man. Dingiswayo Pattipong killed both of them and vanished once more, this time for good.

  Kyes held in red, red rage. He forced himself to rethink. No. This was not a disaster. Analyze it. HUMINT has failed—not surprisingly. But artificial intelligence...

  He ran Yongjukl, the worlds around it, and the galactic cluster it was in through every analysis possible. He found what he was looking for.
>
  Kyes's quest was almost over.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  HE STARTED WITH the Dummy.

  Raschid stayed in the background for an hour or so while Kenna laid the groundwork with Solon Walsh. Even Walsh's keen-eyed aide, Avri, started ignoring him after a while as her boss played the political mating game with Kenna.

  It was Raschid's professional opinion Walsh had most of the makings of an ideal candidate. He was young and sleekly handsome. He spoke without stuttering. He had a steady, clear gaze. There were no food spots on his clothing, and his carefully arranged coif had a charming habit of going slightly out of kilter after a few minutes of conversation. It made him seem more relaxed and genuine. In some areas Walsh had received some expert advice.

  The man exuded honesty. That had everything to do with lack of IQ. That open, wide-eyed look was there because there was nothing behind the optic system. But stupidity could be a candidate's greatest asset—as long as he listened to the right people. Raschid figured the right people in this case was Avri.

  "I'm surprised to learn there's so much common ground between us,” Walsh said as the political dance wound down. “I mean, I had no idea you felt that way about taxes, for instance. Wow! After all this time our whole argument with one another disappeared, just like that.” He snapped his fingers by way of illustration.

  Solon Kenna made with a gentle, fatherly smile. “A misunderstanding, that's all,” he said. “See what happens when two honest beings speak frankly?"

  "That's real good drakh, and all,” Avri interrupted. Walsh shot his aide a nervous look, ready to fold if Avri gave the word. Good. He could be handled. “But where are we at? What's the deal? There's gotta be a deal, else you wouldn't be blowin’ all this smoke.

  "Now, if you think Solon Walsh is gonna take a little earner and fold his tent ... I don't know ... Whatcha got in mind?"

  Kenna handled it without a blink. More points for him. Raschid was feeling better and better about his plan.

  "Right on the mark as always, young Avri,” Kenna smoothed. “I'll let Sr. Raschid help me with this. I really can't stress too hard that this being's credentials go far deeper than I can say. Far deeper."

  Avri's eyes narrowed as Raschid joined the game.

  "Solon Kenna and I have run through this every which way we can,” Raschid said. “Thing is, everybody agrees we have to have a change. Tyrenne Yelad just isn't making it anymore. Trouble is, any way you cut the deck, Yelad keeps coming up on top. Because Walsh and Kenna cancel each other out. Am I right?"

  Avri nodded firmly. She had a hint of a smile at her lips, which Raschid knew meant he had to beat Yelad's mordida, plus the after-election promises.

  "So. What Solon Kenna proposes to do is pull out. And throw his support to you.” He nodded in the direction of the stunned Walsh.

  There was much surprised babbling. But Raschid got the meeting back on track and spelled out the details. Kenna would slip a hefty wad of credits to Walsh, who would put his campaign into high gear, splashing his name all over and hitting the stump hard. That would be just the outward display, however. The real money would be aimed at those few mighty wards with a big number of independent voters, folks who held out to the last so they could get the biggest payoffs.

  Meanwhile, Kenna would ran a lackluster campaign, letting some of his support bleed off.

  "Two nights before the election,” Raschid said, “Kenna pulls out. Says he's seen the light, and all. Credits it to the persuasive words of his worthy opponent-one Solon Walsh. Then throws his support to you."

  They did not go for it right off. Nobody ever does. There had to be bullet-proof assurances that there would be no last-minute betrayal. These were made. And the rest of the terms were set. Walsh would be Tyrenne. In return, Kenna would wield even more clout than before. Avri did not give a clot about the giveaways. She was more interested in being the power behind a Tyrenne's throne.

  "It still ain't enough,” Avri said. “Even if we join forces, Yelad's still got the vote edge. Too many independents. Maybe we can squeak through on that.

  "But he's the man with the pad. He can always top whatever we got by voting the graves."

  What Avri was referring to was that delightfully old-fashioned system still in play on Dusable. There was a joke that no one ever really died. The death certificate got dumped into Yelad's computer banks and that person's name remained on the voting rolls. When Yelad's people saw the count going against them, they voted the dead. Or the living, in the case of people who had emigrated from the Cairenes but were still there on the voting rolls.

  Of course, Yelad could not be too blatant about it. Millions and millions of nonexistent voters would be too much even for the corrupt people of Dusable. Appearances were important. So Yelad's staff kept careful watch on the real voting, an easy task because of the deliberately out-of-date method of vote-casting. First off, every adult being was required by law to vote. The ward/mordida system could not work unless everybody was in the game, physically and psychologically. Second, each person registered with the solon of his or her choice. An ID card was presented at the polls, and the vote cast was registered upon it for a ward captain to examine later. So much for the secret ballot. Finally voters were physically required to go to the polls, rather than voting by computer at home, unlike most citizens of the Empire. This gave a master thief like Yelad all kinds of interesting ways to cheat.

  "How do we get away from that,” Avri asked.

  "We got it covered,” Raschid said. “It'll be tricky, but that's what makes the game fun. But we'd like to keep all that to ourselves awhile. If you don't mind."

  No one did. Kenna was taking all the risks. Avri knew nobody would be mad at Walsh. He was just the Dummy.

  The deal was done. Then Raschid tackled the next part: the Issue. Yelad represented the status quo. Kenna, labor. But Walsh had nothing but empty words. He needed a target. Raschid had the gringo ploy in mind. Nobody in the room knew the term's origins except Raschid, and he wasn't saying, but they knew what it meant. Attack the outsider, somebody big and far off you could blame all troubles on.

  So Walsh's issue was the privy council. It was their fault things had been bungled since the death of the Emperor. It was their fault there was no AM2, creating such bleak times. Yelad would be forced to defend them. If he did not, he was doomed with the all-powerful Imperial council.

  When Raschid had brought it up prior to this meeting, Kenna had been so excited he contemplated forgetting the whole deal with Walsh and keeping his own campaign running. Raschid doused that idea. He pointed out since Kenna was already President of the Council of Solons, the privy council would be highly annoyed at this attack. Kenna did not want or need that kind of attention, Raschid strongly advised. The thought also made him feel personally uncomfortable, although once again, he did not know why.

  "Let the Dummy do it,” Raschid said. “They'll figure he's just grabbing for straws because there's no way he can win. They won't care one way or another what a Dummy says, and they'll ignore the whole thing."

  It was not necessary to spell that out to Walsh. Avri knew what it meant, which was more than enough.

  Kenna was in high spirits as they exited the bar. Everything was on track. Raschid wanted him to stay happy, so he praised his performance.

  "The trick you just pulled was invented by a master,” Raschid said. “It's called a rossthomas."

  "Which means?” Kenna asked with lifted eyebrows.

  "It means that now the fools in this town are on our side,” Raschid said.

  Kenna laughed all the way back to headquarters.

  * * * *

  There were other meetings with key beings who had to be bribed, clued in, brought into line, or a combination of the three. The results were happily similar.

  One meeting, however, Raschid thought best to handle alone.

  The mob boss's name was Pavy. She was known as the hardest, canniest
, and most unforgiving of all Dusable's crime royalty. Her turf was a dozen of the biggest independent wards. Not one coin came through any of them that did not have its edges well skinned. She ran all vice—from joygirls and joyboys to the most addictive narcotics. Her loan sharks were the toughest and most knowledgeable. Her thieves the wiliest. Pavy was also stone gorgeous.

  She was of average height, but in the clinging body suit she wore when she greeted Raschid her legs climbed into the upper atmosphere. Her hair was a dark, close-cropped skullcap, and her eyes were as black as any he had ever seen—with hard, gleaming, diamond points of crafty intelligence. They met in a cozy little room deep inside the one-square-kilometer warren of vice she called The Club.

  Pavy ordered her thug assistants out of the room after the preliminaries. Raschid had already been fine-toothed for weapons in the bombproof room just inside the entrance. Not that Raschid could not have snapped that long slender neck with one hand—which Pavy knew as well as he. Still, she had dismissed her bodyguards. From the look in her eyes, Raschid knew that the woman had already taken his measure. He was there for a deal, not to kill.

  After they left, she refilled their glasses with the aromatic liquor she favored, dropped the jeweled slippers from her feet, and settled back on the soft settee, her legs tucked up under her. She gave Raschid a silent toast with her glass and sipped. He followed her lead.

  "Now tell me what you have in mind,” she purred. Raschid did not make the mistake of thinking the purr was anything other than that of a very deadly tiger.

  He spelled out the program. The fix was in, he said, although he couldn't tell her exactly how it was going to come off. Pavy nodded. That groundwork had been more than satisfactorily settled by Kenna's people. Then he told her what he wanted her to do, just sketching the main points; the little details could be spelled out later. Pavy's smile grew as he talked. She liked this. It was going to be very expensive for someone. She laughed a couple of times, then told him what she wanted in return, a sum that would keep a small planet happy for a year. Raschid shaded the price by one fourth, but only because he sensed she would distrust him if he didn't try. Then Pavy surprised him.