The Last Emperox

by John Scalzi

  Still, Nadashe couldn’t have Kiva out in the world, being a chaos agent just by dint of existing. Kiva had to be removed from the playing board. Nadashe removed her and thought herself wise to do so.

  Not for the first time, Nadashe wondered, in an abstract way, if there was something not quite right about her. If one were to list out her deeds over the last several years, one would suggest they were the acts of a sociopath. She had, after all, helped foment a civil war; attempted to assassinate the emperox not once but twice, the second time killing her own brother as collateral damage; participated in a coup and was fomenting another one; and in the last few weeks taken out a small handful of nobility. On paper, these were not the deeds of a nice or moral person.

  Nadashe did not worry about being nice. Nice was for other people—the people who didn’t have power or a plan to get it when they didn’t have it. Nadashe could never recall being “nice” in the generic sense of the term. Polite? Certainly. Respectful? When appropriate or necessary. Nice? No. Nice felt like an abdication. Like an admission of defeat. Like someone who was a supplicant, rather than a superior or, at least, a peer.

  Maybe if you were nice you would have been married to an emperox already and all this would have been unnecessary, a voice inside her head said to her, a voice that sounded almost exactly like her mother. Nadashe had been the intended fiancée of Rennered Wu, crown prince of the Interdependency, until she wasn’t, because it turned out that Rennered didn’t want a partner so much as he wanted a compliant doormat. A nice, compliant doormat. Nadashe was willing to deal with a lot to be the imperial consort, but not that. And so here we were. And maybe her mother didn’t like that, but then she had killed Rennered by sabotaging his race car and then tried to depose the current emperox. So maybe she wasn’t the best person to lecture anyone on nice.

  So “nice” was not in Nadashe’s personal vocabulary. But “moral” was. Nadashe was aware that killing people and fomenting coups were not the usual hallmarks of a moral person, at least not in isolation. But Nadashe believed, strongly, that there was a context for her acts. The first was the context of the Nohamapetan family, which was objectively a superior line—not in some ridiculous eugenic way but in the consistent influence and importance of the family and its house, going back to the earliest days of the Interdependency, when the Nohamapetans were one of the first families to align themselves with the Wus.

  The Wus, and the imperial line in particular, had lost their way more than once—indeed, that was the problem with the current emperox, who if not for an accident (well, “accident”) would be at best a middle-tier academic in some distant system, well away from the halls of power. It was why Proster Wu agreed to sit Nadashe on the throne. He knew it was time for someone to be there who had the courage to do the hard things, and that there was no one in the Wu family, him not excepted, ready to step up for that. As part of the bargain, Nadashe had promised to marry a Wu and to have her heir bear that family name, when everything settled and there was a new empire based in the End system.

  And who knows? Nadashe thought. She might even do that.

  Beyond the Nohamapetan family itself, there was the matter of the Interdependency, and what it really was. Grayland, who had lived her entire life outside of the nobility and the guilds, thought the Interdependency was its people—all of its people, a multicellular thing with billions of indispensable cells, none of which would survive without all of the others. This was ridiculous, and also futile. There was no way to save every single cell in this vast organism, and it was a waste of time to try.

  Someone had to be willing to sacrifice the body to save what was important: the brain and heart of the Interdependency, the nobility and their monopolies, and the guilds that had sprung up to service both. That the Interdependency existed at all was because the Wus and the Nohamapetans and other noble families had made it so. As long as they existed, the idea of the Interdependency, and the structure of it, would survive and in time would thrive in its new home on End.

  That was what was important. Nadashe understood, again mostly abstractly, that the billions of people who would die with the collapse of the Flow would not be impressed with her reasoning and with her determination to focus on the nobility, guilds and capital. But the fact of the matter was, they were going to die anyway. There was no way to save them all. There was no way to save even more than the tiniest fraction of them. Nadashe didn’t see the point in wasting time worrying about them.

  The nobles were a vastly smaller number of people to contend with. They understood the value of saving themselves. They were the ones who had the majority of capital. They also understood the realpolitik issues they were confronting—which was that the vast majority of people in the Interdependency were going to die, but that the nobles didn’t have to, as long as they were willing to pay the Nohamapetans for access to End. It was simply the cost of doing business in the new paradigm.

  And in doing so, they would save the Interdependency. Nadashe would save the Interdependency.

  In the end, that was the highest morality.

  And if on the way there, Nadashe herself had to do some questionable things? Well. That was also the cost of doing business in the new paradigm.

  So, no, Nadashe thought. There was nothing wrong about her at all. She was strong, and moral and courageous in a way that history would understand. In a not-at-all facetious way, Nadashe thought herself not unlike Rachela I, the first emperox of the Interdependency. Wash away the mythmaking of the Church of the Interdependency and various fawning historians, and you see a woman who had made difficult choices for the good of an entire society. Because those choices had to be made. There would be no Interdependency without those choices, and without Rachela I.

  Nadashe had a fleeting thought that when she became emperox, her imperial name should also be Rachela, to make that connection explicit. She dismissed the idea almost as quickly. It would be a little on the nose, and also, with a new home for the Interdependency at End, it made sense not to look into the past.

  “Emperox Nadashe I” would do just fine.

  Yes, indeed, things were looking up for Nadashe Nohamapetan.

  There was a ping on Nadashe’s tablet, signaling that one of her staff was requesting access to her suite. Nadashe let them enter.

  “The Countess Rafellya Maisen-Persaud, of the House of Persaud, is here to see you, ma’am.”

  “Perfect,” Nadashe said. “Prepare a tea service, and then bring her in.”

  Chapter 15

  “All right, first question. Where the fuck am I?”

  The person Kiva Lagos addressed sat at a small desk in a small room and appeared amused. “I thought your first question might be who the fuck am I.”

  “All right, fine. Who the fuck are you?”

  “My name is Captain Robinette.”

  “Hello, Captain Robinette. Charmed. Where the fuck am I?”

  Captain Robinette looked over at the two crew members who had accompanied Kiva Lagos to his stateroom. “Wait outside,” he said. “Close the door. If you hear anything other than slightly raised voices, come in and beat her unconscious.” The two left.

  Kiva was unimpressed. “You won’t make any noise if I fucking strangle you,” she said.

  “I’m going to take the chance you’ll make noise coming over the desk.”

  “And you still haven’t answered my question. Where the fuck am I?”

  “Before I answer that, please tell me what you remember before you got here.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Indulge me, please.”

  “Before I woke up here, the last thing I remember is being shot in the fucking face. When I woke up here, I was in a room the size of a fucking broom closet, where I stayed for four fucking days, with nothing but a case of protein bars and a chemical fucking toilet to keep me company. That thing’s a fucking mess, by the way.”

  “After four days it would be. Go on.”

  Kiva moti
oned behind her. “Then the door to my cell unlatched, and then your pals Chuckle and Fuckle told me to come with them. Then I was here. The end. Where the fuck am I?”

  The amused look on Robinette’s face had not noticeably changed since Kiva entered the room, which annoyed her. “You’re on the freighter Our Love Couldn’t Go On, which as of”—Robinette checked his timepiece—“forty-five minutes ago has entered the Flow stream to the Bremen system, a journey that will take us fifteen days and four hours, more or less. The previous four days were us accelerating toward the Flow stream. I was under instruction not to let you out of your stateroom during those four days. My employer was quite specific. Thus the protein bars and chemical toilet. I assume you figured out there was water in the sink.”

  “It tasted like shit.”

  “Yes, well, inasmuch as the water is reclaimed, it might. It’s potable, but just barely.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “My employer noted that you might be hostile,” Robinette observed.

  “This isn’t me hostile,” Kiva said.

  “I assume hostile will be you coming over the desk and strangling me.”

  “For starters.”

  “Fair enough,” Robinette said, agreeably, and then reached into his desk to pull out a handgun, which he aimed at Kiva, finger lightly on the trigger. “This should keep things civil.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “For certain values of civil, anyway.”

  “Why the fuck are we going to Bremen?”

  “Because next month is Oktoberfest and I’ve never been.”

  “I asked a serious question.”

  “And I gave you a serious answer. My employer was specific that you were to be escorted out of the Hub system but didn’t much care where. I suggested the Bremen system because it’s a relatively short hop in the Flow, the Flow streams to and from Hub are predicted to be sound for a few years yet, and because Oktoberfest sounds like fun. It apparently hails all the way back to Earth times. I’ve never been. So why not? And my employer was fine with it, so here we are.”

  “Let me guess who your mysterious fucking employer is.”

  “You don’t have to guess,” Robinette said. “It’s Nadashe Nohamapetan. The same person who had you shot in the face with stun pellets. How do you feel, by the way?”

  “How the fuck do you think I feel?” Kiva said. “Like I was shot in the fucking face with a bunch of rocks.”

  Robinette nodded. “You look terrible, too. All those little pinpricks where the pellets went into your head and neck.”

  “Thanks, asshole.”

  “The good news is they’ll heal pretty quickly. Almost certainly by the time we get to Bremen.”

  “And then what?”

  “Like I said: Oktoberfest.”

  “I mean what happens to me, you singularly obtuse motherfucker.”

  “That hasn’t been decided yet. I was told that once we arrive at Bremen further instructions will come. We are to wait for two months. If no additional instructions have come by then, I’m supposed to toss you out an airlock. We have three. You may pick.”

  “I don’t understand,” Kiva said. “Why would she keep me alive just to have me tossed out of a fucking airlock?”

  “You should ask her yourself.”

  “She’s rather inconveniently not here at the moment, you fatuous bag of pricks.”

  “Well—if I set down this gun, do you promise not to come over the desk?”

  “I promise nothing.”

  “I’ll take my chances. Please note that the gun is keyed to my fingerprint, so even if you grab for it, it won’t do you any good.”

  “I could fucking beat you to death with it.”

  “I’ll just put it back in the desk, then,” Robinette said, and did so. From the same drawer he produced an envelope, which he handed to Kiva. “It’s from my employer. She was specific that I should give it to you once you were released from your captivity.”

  Kiva stared at the envelope. “Oh my fucking god. She’s gloating in print.”

  “She may be,” agreed Robinette. He pointed to the envelope. “If you don’t mind, once you read that, I’d like to know what she said.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “I’m curious, is all. She was a passenger on this ship for some months, you know. From when her mother and all those others were arrested for treason to really not all that long ago. I understand she’s traded up in terms of accommodations, and I suppose I can’t really blame her.”

  “Yeah, this ship is kind of a shithole from what I’ve seen,” Kiva said.

  “Perhaps, but with regard to your situation, Lady Kiva, being inside of it is better than being outside of it.”

  “You have a point there,” Kiva admitted. “So Nadashe was not popular on your ship, I take it.”

  “I believe the polite euphemism is ‘she kept to herself.’”

  “Then why the fuck are you doing her dirty work?”

  “For the most obvious reason there is, Lady Kiva: She’s paying me very very well to do it.”

  “I can pay you more than she can,” Kiva said.

  “Perhaps you could, theoretically. But as a practical matter, you’re on this ship without access to any funds whatsoever, while Nadashe Nohamapetan has already paid me half up front, which is in itself more than I’ve made in the last two years. So your money—if you had any on you, which you don’t—is literally no good here. Sorry.”

  “You’re making a mistake.”

  “Possibly, but I doubt it. I heard of Nadashe Nohamapetan long before I ever had reason to cross her path. She strikes me as both singularly determined, and absolutely the wrong person to get on the bad side of. So I’m going to take her money and stay on her good side, if that’s all right with you.”

  Kiva snorted. Captain Robinette took that as an affirmation, and continued. “In the meantime, you have two choices, Lady Kiva. The first is to choose to behave yourself, which means staying in the areas I tell you to stay in and keeping out of the way of the running of the ship and the responsibilities of the crew. In which case you will be allowed some freedom of movement and access to a tablet for entertainment. The Our Love isn’t a cruise liner and there’s not much to do, and everyone knows why you’re here and they’re not going to be inclined to wait on you. But it’s better than the alternative.”

  “Which is?”

  “That you cause me trouble, Lady Kiva. In which case I lock you back into your broom closet with some protein bars and that chemical toilet, and you can count the rivets on the bulkhead. And if you’re especially troublesome, I might have you tossed out an airlock without waiting for permission.”

  “Nadashe wouldn’t like that,” Kiva said. “She’s not paying you to make decisions.”

  “That’s true. It’s her money. But it’s my fucking ship, Lady Kiva. Pardon the language. So, which choice will you make?”

  “I’ll play nice.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.” Robinette reached into his desk again and produced a tablet, which he handed to Kiva. “That has guest access, and includes information about the ship and the services the crew can provide. You have access to the ship’s doctor, which I suggest you take advantage of, and if you talk to the purser, we can get you an extra set of clothes. I’ll give those to you. Call it a gesture of goodwill.”

  “Thanks,” Kiva said, sarcastically.

  “You’re welcome,” Robinette said, not sarcastically at all. “There are two sex workers on board, but they are a value-add for the crew and you don’t have any money, so you should maybe skip them. But you can screw any other crew member you like on your own time as long as you don’t disrupt ship’s duties or its general calm.”

  “I’m not exactly in the mood.”

  “It’ll be two weeks to Bremen. You may change your mind. In any event, there’s your tablet and there’s your letter, and now you know where you are and why. Do you have any other questions at the moment?”


  “Not for you,” Kiva said.

  “Then you’re dismissed. Either Chuckle or Fuckle, as you call them, will escort you back to your quarters. And Lady Kiva, if I may make a suggestion.”

  “What is it?”

  “You may have noticed I was tolerant of your threats and attitude in our little chat today,” Robinette said. “That’s because I find it strangely charming, and because I know that being in a hole for four days would make anyone testy. I don’t suggest you continue with that attitude with me from here on out, and especially not in front of my crew. The Our Love may be a shithole, as you describe it, but it’s a shithole that needs tight discipline, and I can’t and won’t tolerate anything that messes with that. Do we understand each other?”

  “Fine.”

  “Good. Also, I strongly suggest not trying that attitude with the crew, either.”

  “Why? Because it would be mean?”

  “No, because they’ll break a butter knife off in your neck.”

  “I thought you said you kept tight fucking discipline on this ship.”

  “I said the ship needs tight discipline. I didn’t say that if you tested that proposition, you wouldn’t find yourself dead.”

  * * *

  Nadashe’s letter was, of course, irritating as all fuck.

  It went like this:

  Kiva:

  Because I know you are wondering, here is why I’ve kept you alive.

  Because it amuses me to keep you alive, on that terrible ship.

  Because I’ll need you alive to access some of those still-frozen accounts.

  Because keeping you alive will keep your mother and the House of Lagos in check. There’s something to be said for the fine art of keeping hostages.

  I should note that the last of these is something I’m keeping in my pocket for now. As far as anyone else knows, you were killed along with Drusin Wolfe. After my contractor killed Wolfe and stunned you, my own ambulance crew was first to the scene and ferried you away. I regret to say you died on the way to the hospital, and your body immediately shipped in a closed casket back to Ikoyi. I framed Wolfe for it; he was killed by his own sloppy contractors. Good help is hard to find.