The Return of the Emperor

by Chris Bunch

  He did not tell war stories.

  Cind, at first, was disappointed. Here was a chance to learn from the greatest warrior of them all. But she found herself listening to other tales—of the strange beings he had encountered, some human, some otherwise, some friendly, some less than that. Again, there was no gore to those stories.

  The alpine meadow heard, many times, the chime of crystal.

  Cind talked about how strange it had been, growing up as the daughter of the warrior sect of a jihad-prone religion, a religion not only shattered by war but one whose gods had been proven frauds and degenerates. It had seemed natural to her to gravitate toward the Bhor.

  "Although now I wonder sometimes. Was I just, going from wanting one kind of belief-shelter"—she used the Talameic word—"to another?"

  Sten raised an eyebrow. True or not, it was a sophisticated observation from someone as young as Cind.

  He told her about the worlds he had seen. Tropic, arctic, vacuum. The redwoods of Earth. His own world of Smallbridge.

  "Perhaps ... I could show it to you. One day."

  "Perhaps,” Cind said, smiling very slightly, “I would like to see it. One day."

  They did not sleep together. Cind might have gone to Sten's tent, if he had asked. He did not.

  A very odd R&R, Sten mused, as his self-allotted vacation time expired and they loaded the gravcar. Not what I expected...

  But maybe what I needed.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  THE TRIBUNAL WAS nearly ready to announce its decision. After the last witness had been called and the final bit of evidence presented, the judges withdrew to their chamber. Several weeks of backbreaking clerical work followed as they pored over the mounds of testimony.

  At first, Sten felt it was a great privilege to be allowed to watch. He, Alex, and Mahoney huddled in the far corner as Sr. Ecu and the three judges debated the relative worth of every detail. As recorder, Dean Blythe oversaw the efforts to officially document the private proceedings for legal history. Sr. Ecu was particularly wary that whatever the outcome, there would be no oversight anyone could use against them.

  The judges assumed their roles with a fury. Warin remained totally impartial. Apus, despite her hatred for the Council, was an ardent defender. Sometimes Sten had to shake himself to remember what her true feelings were. One side of him grew angry when she relentlessly hammered away in the privy council's defense. The other side of him admired her for taking her duties so seriously.

  Still, it was hard not to get pissed when things like the information he had retrieved from Lovett Arena were dismissed as nothing but rubbish, a trick of science or possibly even planted evidence.

  Rivas, on the other hand—who only disagreed with the council for philosophical, not personal, reasons—became their angry tormentor. In public, and even in the privacy of chambers, he shouted down any attempt to weaken the case against the council. Sten did not bother the reasonable side of himself when Rivas went at it. He purely enjoyed the being's constant attacks. It was Rivas who kept pointing things back, talking about how circumstance after circumstance could not be ignored. And he mightily defended the council's secret agreement as proof of opportunity to conspire, if nothing else.

  Then, as the weeks lumbered on, Sten's eyes glazed over. Alex and Mahoney were no better. They slipped away whenever possible. Unfortunately, dodging the waiting livie newscasters was worse than boredom. So mostly they stayed and dozed.

  But finally it was nearly over. The Tribunal was getting down to the vote. Rivas and Apus had shed their roles as advocates and had joined Warin in impartial consideration. The suspense had Sten's interest stirring again. He leaned forward so that he would not miss a word.

  "I don't think we can delay any longer, gentlebeings,” Sr. Ecu was saying. “Are you ready for your decision?"

  Sten did not hear the answer. Alex had planted an urgent elbow in his ribs. Mahoney was at the door making frantic motions for them to join him outside chambers.

  Mahoney wasted no time. As soon as the chamber doors closed behind them he collared Sten and Alex.

  "It's Otho,” he said. “There's some very strange business at the spaceport. We're wanted. Now, lads."

  As they hurried for the spaceport, Mahoney filled them in with what little he knew. It seemed that they were being blessed with a high-level visit—from Dusable. “What do those clots want?” was Sten's first reaction. “Thae's all snakier villains ae any Campbell,” was Kilgour's.

  "That's all too true,” Mahoney said. “But we can't be judging too harshly. We need all the help we can get, no matter how slimy the source."

  By help, Mahoney said, he meant that no matter how crooked, Dusable was a recognized governmental body in the Empire—an important body. Not only that, but no mere representatives had been sent. Accordingly to Otho, the newly elected Tyrenne Walsh was on board, as was the president of the Council of Solons, that master of all political thieves, Solon Kenna.

  "They are here to officially recognize the Tribunal's proceedings,” Mahoney said. “Also, any bill of indictment they may hand down. So they're ready to jump in front of the cameras and announce their stand against the privy council."

  Sten did not need a refresher course in politics to know what that meant. When slimy pols like Kenna and Walsh climbed on board, the political winds were definitely blowing in the Tribunal's favor. And when the council's other allies saw that, there was a good chance of many more shifts in the balance.

  Only Otho and some of his Bhor troops were at the ship to greet them. The ship had just landed and the ramp run out. He hastily advised Sten that livie crews had been alerted and would soon come crushing in.

  "By my mother's long and flowing beard,” he growled, “luck is sticking with us. I knew you were lucky the first I met you, my friend.” He gave Sten a heavy slap on the back.

  Sten noticed that crude as Otho may appear, he was too wise a ruler not to figure out for himself what the sudden support from the Dusable fence sitters would mean for him. No political explanations were needed.

  The ship's doors hissed open, but it was long moments before anyone stepped outside. Then Walsh and Kenna emerged, their aides following in an odd straggle. Sten was confused. He expected a typical display of pomp. Maybe it was because the livie crews had not arrived yet. Still, the two pols made a rather drab appearance.

  Walsh and Kenna approached—a bit nervously, Sten thought. They almost jumped when Otho growled orders for his troops to draw up to smart attention—at least, as smart as any bowlegged Bhor could be. What was bothering the two? This should be an expected, if a bit puny, honor.

  Mahoney stepped forward to greet them. Sten and Alex moved with him. There was a muffled sound inside the ship. Sten was sure it was someone cracking out a command—and he swore he recognized that command. Personally, knew it. He barely noticed as Walsh, Kenna, and their entourage hastily ducked to the sidelines. Sten was too busy gaping.

  Squat little men with dark features and proud eyes exited in a precise spear formation. Their royal uniforms glowed with the records of their deeds. Their kukris were held high at a forty-five-degree port arms, light dazzling off the burnished facets of the blades.

  Sten knew those men. He had once commanded them.

  The Gurkkhas! What in hell's name were they doing here? On a ship from Dusable?

  Then he saw the answer. He saw it. But he didn't believe it. At first.

  The most familiar figure in Sten's, or any other being's life, marched at the apex of the spear line. He towered over the Gurkkhas. He looked neither left nor right, but kept those fierce eyes fixed royally ahead.

  Sten could not move, speak, or salute. Beside him, he felt the frozen shock of his own companions.

  "By my father's frozen buttocks,” Otho muttered. “It's Him!"

  As it reached them the spears parted and then reformed. Sten found himself staring into those oddly ancient/young eyes. He saw the
recognition, and heard his name uttered. Alex jerked as his own name was mentioned after a momentary furrow of those regal brows.

  The man turned to Mahoney and gave him a wide, bright grin. “I'm glad you stuck around, Ian,” the Eternal Emperor said.

  Mahoney fainted.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  NOT ALL OF the Privy Council's vengeance fleet was composed of bloody-handed loyalists to the New Regime. Blind obedience cannot make up all of a resume—particularly when the assigned task must be accomplished.

  Fleet Admiral Fraser, not happy with her orders but as always obedient, commanded the attacking force from the bridge of the Imperial Battleship Chou Kung—such as it was. The privy council had stripped AM2 depots bare of their remaining fuel for the fleet. There was enough to get them to Newton, engage ... and then that stolen AM2 convoy had best have been parked in the Jura System if any of them planned a return journey.

  One problem Fraser did not have: her ships were not as undermanned as customary. Would that they were, she thought. The council had ordered all ships brought to full strength. So just as the fuel depots were stripped, so were noncombatant ships and ground stations.

  Of course none of the commanders sent their best if they could avoid it. Fraser dreamed of having six months—no, a full E-year before she could beat the new fleet into command unity. Even that long would be a miracle, and Fraser thought wistfully of what she had read about draconian disciplinary methods used on water navies.

  And of course there were volunteers. Some eager for action, more because they had chosen to back the council in the purge. If the council fell, these officers could expect no mercy whatsoever from the inevitable courts-martial that would be ordered, courts-martial that, almost certainly, would be empowered to order the ultimate verdicts.

  Fraser did what she could as the fleet bored on through nothing, running constant drills and even going to the extreme of ordering some ships’ navplots slaved to their division leaders.

  She was not pleased—but she felt quietly confident, without underestimating her probable foe. She had carefully analyzed the slaughter of Gregor's 23rd Fleet. It had been skillfully handled, but the tactics were more those of raiders than conventional combat forces. Plus the defenders of the Jura System had a fixed area that must be defended. Fraser planned to bring them to battle well clear of the system. She would divert half her reserves to hit the Jura worlds, Newton being the primary target. She would have to split her forces, but certainly the defenders would have to do the same. Once the rebel units were defeated, Fraser's fleet would land on Newton. At that point, her responsibilities would end—which she was very grateful for.

  The orders the grim-faced men in the accompanying troopships had were sealed, but Fraser, if she allowed herself to think about them, knew what they were.

  A com officer interrupted the silence on the flag bridge. “Admiral ... we have an all-freqs broadcast. Source of transmission ... Newton."

  "All frequencies?"

  "That's affirmative. Including our own TBS and Command nets. Also it's going out on all the commercial lengths we're monitoring."

  "Jam it. Except for the Command Net. Ship commanders’ eyes only. I have no interest in my sailors seeing any propaganda.” An all-frequency cast could only mean that the self-styled Tribunal had reached its verdict.

  "We ... can't."

  "Can't?” Fraser did not need to say anything more. That was a word that did not exist.

  The com officer wilted, then recovered. “No. Broadcast strength's got too much power behind it. Only way to block the transmission is to cut the entire fleet out of external communication."

  That was a chance Fraser could not take. “Very well. Scramble as best you can. Patch a clear signal through to my set."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Fraser and the other ship COs and division commanders saw what happened clearly. Other screens on other ships showed murky, partial images and speech. But the specific details of what happened were not necessary and, in any event, were quickly word-of-mouthed by any sailor standing duty on a command deck.

  The vid showed the inside of the huge auditorium chosen for the Tribunal's hearing. The three solemn-faced judges sat, waiting.

  A door behind them slid open, and a Manabi floated out. On either side of the door stood two stocky small humans, wearing combat fatigues and slouch hats, chin straps in place below their lower lips. Both of them were armed with willyguns and long, sheathed knives.

  An off-screen voice commented, “All beings witnessing this cast are recommended to record it, as said before."

  There was silence. Then the Manabi, Sr. Ecu, spoke.

  "This is the final hearing of the Tribunal. However, circumstances have altered intent."

  Fraser lifted an eyebrow. That kangaroo court was actually going to find no charges against the privy council? Not that it would matter.

  "This is not to say that a verdict has not been reached. It is the finding of this Tribunal that the beings—Srs. Kyes, the Kraas, Lovett, and Malperin—who style themselves as the privy council are indictable.

  "This Tribunal finds that a conspiracy for murder was planned and executed by these named beings, as individuals and as a group. We further have found, in accordance with one of the so-called Nuremburg statutes, and so declare their council is a criminal organization.

  "Other charges which have been brought up before this Tribunal, up to and including high treason, will not be found on.

  "We therefore charge all courts and officers of the law, both Imperial and individual, with the task of bringing the afore-named members of the privy council to a criminal court, to defend themselves against the charges found.

  "However, this finding is not the only or the most important purpose of this cast."

  Ecu floated to the side and turned to face that door.

  It opened.

  The Eternal Emperor entered the courtroom.

  * * * *

  There may have been pandemonium, or the sound might have been muted. Fraser did not know. Certainly there was a boil of chaos on her own bridge. Eventually she forced order on her own mind, ignoring the shock that all she believed and served was no longer true, and shouted for silence.

  And silence there was. Sailors may have stared at their dials and controls—but all that existed was the words that came from that screen.

  "I commend the members of this tribunal. The investigators, the clerks, the officials, and the judges. They have proven themselves my Faithful and True Servants, in a time when such loyalty has become a warrant of death.

  "They—and others—shall be rewarded.

  "Now, we face a common task. To return the Empire to its greatness. It will not be easy.

  "But it can—and will—be done.

  "The work in front of us must be accomplished. There will not be peace, there will not be order until the Empire stretches as it did before, giving peace, prosperity, and the rule of law throughout the universe.

  "I thank those of you who remained loyal, who knew the privy council spoke out of fear, greed, and hatred, not in my name. But there are others.

  "Others who for whatever reason chose to march under the bloody banner of the council. I order you now to stop. Obey no orders from the traitors. Listen to no lies or instructions. If your fists are clenched—open them. If you bear arms—lay them down. You must—and will—follow my orders. You will follow them immediately. There has been enough crime, enough evil.

  "I specifically address myself to the misguided beings who are manning Imperial warships, on their way to attack this world and myself.

  "You have two hours to obey. All ships of this criminal fleet are ordered to leave star drive and assume parking orbits in the system. No weapons are to be manned. At the end of this time, you are directed to surrender to my designated units.

  "You are Imperial soldiers and sailors. You serve me—and you serve the Empire.

 
"Two hours.

  "Any men, units, or ships failing to obey will be declared turncoats and outlaws and hunted down. The penalties for treason are very clear and will be meted with great severity.

  "Surrender. Save your lives. Save your honor. Save your Empire."

  * * * *

  The screen blanked. An audio came on, saying something about all physical attributes of the man who just spoke—the Eternal Emperor—being cast on a separate channel. Skeptics were invited to compare them with easily available public documents.

  Fraser paid no attention. She served the Empire—and now, once more, with a vast relief, the Emperor himself.

  "Flag! I want an all-ships link! Captain! On my command, stand by for secondary drive."

  "We are going to—” someone on the bridge said. “Serve the Emperor,” Fraser interrupted. The com officer shot her.

  He himself died two seconds later, as Fraser's aide slashed Fraser's weighted baton across the officer's neck.

  There were other guns and ceremonial knives out. A blast went wild and disabled the main drive controls. The flag bridge was a melee of mutiny—if that was what it was.

  Secondary command centers never went on line—they too were in chaos. The Chou Kung drove on, still under drive.

  In miniature, that hysteria and devastation was the entire Imperial fleet as it kilkennied itself.

  Some ships obeyed—and were attacked by others still loyal to the council. Other ships tried to continue the mission toward the Jura System. Still others managed to “disappear” into normal space and Yukawa drive. Division commanders snarled com channels, looking for orders, guidance, or agreement.

  Then Sten attacked.

  The Eternal Emperor had lied about the two hours of grace.

  * * * *

  The late Admiral Fraser had correctly analyzed Sten's tactics in the raid on the AM2 convoy. The Bhor, the Rom, and the mercenaries were, indeed, more comfortable in single-ship or small-squadron attacks. She was also correct that the Tribunal's fleet would not be capable of a conventional defense against a conventional attack.