The Court of a Thousand Suns

by Chris Bunch

  A hundred years before, Ledoh had been a fireball. Literally. During the Palafox rising, his tacship flight was ordered to provide cover for a small planetary landing. Unfortunately, intelligence had erred, and the planet was strongly defended by hardened orbital satellites.

  Ledoh had supervised the conversion of the tacships into pilot-aimed nuclear missiles, and then led the strike himself. He and three other pilots managed to jettison their capsules successfully.

  Then, over the next decades, he'd become the Imperial fleet's prime specialist in planetary assaults. Promotion came rapidly for a man who, basically, specialized in logistics. By the time of the Mueller Wars, Ledoh was a fleet admiral.

  The Mueller Wars were one of the more confusing conflicts of the Empire, since the battles were fought near-simultaneously on dozens of different worlds. During the wars, Ledoh commanded the landings in the Crais System, and in a war noted for its bloodiness and ineptness, took the system with minimal losses—minimal, at least, compared to the fifty to seventy percent casualties the war's other battles produced.

  After peace was signed, Ledoh retired for some years, then emigrated to Prime World. When the previous Grand Chamberlain died in office following an unfortunate surfeit of smoked eels, Ledoh, with his combat record and, more important, logistical ability, was a natural for the job.

  Sten could never figure out how Ledoh managed to juggle the various official and unofficial requirements of a household the size of a medium city and still maintain benevolence. Sten was very grateful that he had nothing more to worry about than keeping the Emperor alive, and the welfare of 150 Gurkhas.

  Sten stepped inside Ledoh's office and paused.

  Ledoh, Colonel Fohlee, CO of the Praetorians, and Arbogast, the Imperial Household's paymaster, were staring at a wallscreen readout.

  "Colonel," Arbogast said, "I am not attempting to involve myself in militaria. All I am doing is trying to clear this inquiry from Himself regarding the, and I quote, inordinately high desertion rate in your unit."

  "What does the Emperor expect to happen when you dump a lot of young soldiers into the middle of Prime? Any virgin can be seduced."

  "Another area which isn't my expertise," Arbogast said. He and Fohlee quite clearly hated each other. Ledoh attempted mediation.

  "There were four desertions this month alone, Colonel. Perhaps you should examine the selection method for your Praetorians."

  Fohlee turned on Ledoh. "Does not compute, Admiral. Candidates for the Praetorians are personally vetted by myself or my adjutant."

  Arbogast came in before Ledoh could respond. "No one is trying to assign blame, Colonel. But your records indicate that almost forty men from your unit have disappeared in the last E-year alone. And none of these deserters has turned himself in or been arrested. The Emperor feels that something is wrong."

  "I'm aware of that," Fohlee said. "My staff is devoting full attention to the problem."

  "Perhaps," Ledoh said, "we're putting too much demand on the young soldiers."

  "Perhaps," Fohlee said reluctantly. "I'll look into it myself."

  "Thank you, Colonel. I'll report to the emperor that you have taken over full personal responsibility." Arbogast gathered his file, nodded to Ledoh and Sten, and disappeared back toward the rabbit-warren filing system.

  "Clotting clerks," Fohlee snarled, then turned and saw Sten. "Captain."

  "Colonel Fohlee."

  "I've been trying to contact you for most of today."

  "Sorry, Colonel," Sten said. "I was under special orders."

  Fohlee snorted. "No doubt. I've been observing your troops, Captain. And, while I never believe in telling another commander his business, it appears to me that some of your soldiers are less than adequately concerned about their appearance."

  "Gurkhas are pretty lousy at spit and polish," Sten agreed.

  "It's been my experience, having commanded soldiers from every race, that none of them cannot be taught proper military appearance."

  Even though Fohlee was nowhere near Sten's chain of command, there was little benefit in getting into a slanging match with a superior officer.

  "Thank you for bringing the matter to my attention," Sten said formally. "I'll check into it."

  Fohlee nodded a very military nod. Once up, once down. He collected his file, came to attention, saluted Ledoh, and brushed past Sten.

  Ledoh waited until the colonel's metal-tapped boot-heels resounded down the corridor, then smiled. "Offload, young Sten. What's the prog?"

  Sten was still staring out the door.

  "Don't fret the colonel, boy. He's just grinding his molars."

  "I see. But what the hell do I have to do with why his toy soldiers are disappearing?"

  "Jealousy."

  "Huh?"

  "Colonel Fohlee is deeply disturbed that—by Fohlee's thinking at least—the Eternal Emperor puts so little faith in his Praetorians, and chooses the Gurkhas for immediate security."

  Sten blinked. "That—no offense, sir—is damned silly."

  "The smallness of the military mind in peacetime, young Sten, should never be overrated. At any rate. Your problem, now."

  "It's, well, unofficial. And personal."

  "Oh-hoh." Ledoh touched a key on his desk and the door behind Sten slid shut and the conference light on the exterior went on. "Timecheck?"

  Sten looked at his watch finger. "Seventeen forty-five."

  Ledoh sighed contentedly and fished a flask out of his desk. Two pewter cups went beside it, and Ledoh gestured with the bottle. "Join me in a libation of this substance our Eternal Distiller refers to as Scotch."

  "Uh, I'm not sure if I'm off duty."

  "As my prerogative as Household Chamberlain, you are officially off duty."

  Sten grinned as Ledoh filled the cups.

  "I have no idea," Ledoh said plaintively, "why His Highness insists on gifting me with this vile swill."

  The two men drank.

  "GA, young man."

  Sten passed Ledoh the invitation.

  Ledoh's eyebrows slithered slightly in amazement. "Great Empire, but you rate, young man. I wasn't invited to this bash."

  Sten handed the personal note across.

  "Ah. Now I see. Who is this Sofia?"

  "A, uh, young woman I am—was—friendly with."

  "Suddenly it all becomes very clear. Pour yourself another, son."

  Sten followed orders.

  "Firstly, this event is, as the vid-chatter says, the primo social event of the season."

  Sten didn't want to seem ignorant, but—"Who is this Hakone?"

  "Tsk. Young officers should read more. He is an author. Very controversial and all that. Writes about, generally, the military, from, shall we say, a somewhat unique point of view.

  "Were the Eternal Emperor not who he is, in fact, Hakone's writing might be termed borderline treason."

  "That settles that, then."

  "Negative, young man. The Emperor encourages dissent—short of anyone's actually putting it into practice. And as you may have discovered after Empire Day, he likes his officers to think freely."

  "So I should go?"

  "You should go. Excellent visibility for career and all that. However, there remains one problem. This young lady… Sofia."

  "Yeah," Sten agreed.

  "Without prying, young Sten, what are your current feelings toward the lady?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "Then there is a problem—besides the fact that both our glasses are empty. Thank you.

  "Marr and Senn believe in keeping, shall we say, a lively household. By this I mean that they have in residence some of the most marriageable beings in the Empire."

  "Oops," Sten said, almost spilling his Scotch.

  "Exactly. If this Sofia is able to invite you to the feté, she must be one of Marr and Senn's Eligibles."

  Sten couldn't believe it. "Me?"

  "Of course, Captain. You could be considered very desirable. I assume this Sof
ia comes from some off-planet nobility or other, and probably has wealth. For her, marrying someone who has the appropriate hero awards, someone who is part of the Imperial Household, and, most important, someone who has been selected at a very young age for a fairly important command, might, shall we say, signify?"

  "I'm not going!"

  "Do not be so absolutist, Sten. Consider the invitation. It says 'Guest,' does it not? The answer to your problem is simple. Contact an incredibly lovely young lady of your acquaintance and take her. That should defuse the Sofia situation handily."

  Sten poured his drink down and shook his head sadly.

  "Admiral, all I've done since I've been on Prime is my job. I don't know any young ladies—let alone any incredibly lovely ones."

  "Ah well. Perhaps the Emperor will be willing to give the bride away, then."

  Sten blanched.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The tower was a shudder of light at the end of a long, narrow valley. A gravcar flared over the mountains, spearing the valley with its landing lights—hesitating as the autopilot oriented itself, and then whooshed toward the tower along the broad avenue that was the valley. Moments later, other gravcars followed its route, hovering momentarily then bursting for the tower in a rush.

  Marr and Senn had invested half their credits and most of their ultraartistic souls in the tower. It needled up from a broad base to a slender penthouse perch. The tower was constructed of every imaginable mineral, metal, or crystal that responded pleasingly to light. For their living quarters, Senn and Marr had had no interest in conventional building materials. Nor were the materials uniform in shape or size—a vaguely oval lump might be placed next to a perfect square. Light in all its forms was all that counted. Red light fired by emotional changes; blue from the musk of wild valley animals; and all the other primary colors from the constantly changing humidity and temperature of the valley itself. Some lights flickered from hue to hue in constantly shifting moods; others stayed one color for hours on end—the bass notes in the color orchestra.

  Marr and Senn thought of the tower as a simple place, a place they called home. And that night it glowed more frantically than most others as the guests arrived. Because that night they were having a special party.

  Sten's throat was suddenly filled with abrasive phlegm. Cough as he would, he couldn't clear it, it just seemed to clog his throat more. What's more, his ears burned and his toes and fingers felt frostbitten and his tongue plas-coated. He was trying to figure out what to do with the gorgeous woman pressed up against him. His arms waggled on either side of her body, trying to make up their minds whether to paddle in or paddle out. It didn't help that the woman's musk was designed—well designed—to incite lust in any male dead less than ninety-six hours. Finally, he put his hands on the woman's slender hips, hugged them slightly for politeness' sake, and then pushed her away. "Uh… nice to see you, too, Sofia."

  Sofia stepped back and took him in with melting eyes. She was looking at him with, well, approval, Sten thought, wishing a guy could wear something resembling underwear beneath the skin-tight formal uniform of a Gurkha officer.

  She crammed herself against him again in another full-body melt and whispered in his ear. "It's been so long, Sten, love… I could… I could—You know…"

  Yeah, Sten did know. He could remember quite well, thank you, and all of his memories were pleasant. The trouble was, he almost hadn't recognized Sofia when she appeared before him. Not that she was unpleasant to look at; far from it. But he had fixed in his mind a portrait of the straightforward woman of nineteen or twenty, with a dark short-cropped halo of hair and eyes that questioned and judged things as they were. Instead, he was staring at a surgically perfect curve of a woman, with a glittering tumble of hair that reached just below her buttocks. It was also her only covering. Sofia was fashionably naked, her skin pricked here and there with highlights of color. Still, it was Sofia, after a fashion, a Sofia with hungry, knowing eyes.

  Sten was sorrier than hell that he had ever had her introduced at Court. "You… look great, Sofia," he said, trying again to edge her gently away. It wasn't that he didn't like having a naked woman in his arms, he just liked it better without everyone watching him.

  "We have so much to catch up on," Sofia draped an arm in his. "Let's go someplace private and talk."

  Sten felt himself being led away like an obedient little dog.

  "Here's our drinks, Sten," came the welcome voice from behind him. "You can't believe the cute little robo-server they… oh… uh… Sten?"

  And Sten turned with great relief. Police Lieutenant Lisa Haines was standing with two drinks in her hands and a puzzled-going-to-hurt look on her face.

  With the numb but still nimble fingers of a born survivor, Sten jumped for the rope she was dangling out. "Lisa," he said, his voice a little high, "you're just in time to meet an old friend of mine, Sofia Parral."

  Sofia stared coldly at the woman. "Oh," she said, her voice steel-edged.

  "Sofia, I'd like you to meet Lieutenant Haines. She's uh… I mean, we're… uh…"

  Lisa extended a hand to Sofia. "I'm his guest—a new friend of Sten's," Lisa purred. "So nice to meet an old one. Knowing the captain, I'm sure we have a great deal in common."

  Sofia coldly took her hand and shook it. "Yes," she said. "I'm sure we do."

  She turned her attention back to Sten. Frost coated her eyes. "Forgive me, Sten, but I simply must not ignore the other guests. Perhaps we can talk later." She turned a smooth, lovely back to him and ankled away. Sten was not quite sure what he had escaped, but clotting glad he had. He absently reached for one of the drinks Lisa was holding and was brought up short by the smile on her face.

  "I didn't realize you knew anyone here, Sten."

  He swallowed his drink and then found the other one being thrust into is hand.

  "Oh, maybe one or two." Then he laughed, suddenly at ease. "Put it at one. Just one. And thanks a hell of a lot."

  He looked Lisa over approvingly. Her body was curved richly and deep, and displayed in a very uncoplike white gown that hugged and hollowed in all the proper places. She took the glasses from him.

  "Now, let's go find a refill," she said. "And enjoy the party. Assuming there are no more surprises. Mmmm?"

  "No. No more surprises. I hope."

  Sten couldn't have been more wrong. In seconds he had a refill, Lisa was close against him, an orchestra was playing, and there was just enough room on the dance floor. Sten figured he could fake it, especially since the orchestra was playing what even Sten could recognize as a three-quarter-time slow dance.

  He bowed to Lisa and led her onto the polished metal floor. That, he realized later, should have been the key.

  But there he was, settling gently into Lisa's arms, moving his feet along the floor, and then he started to understand why Marr and Senn's events were superparties.

  When the band began the song's reprise, someone turned the generators on and surprised dancers found themselves floating straight up, then drifting sideways into counteractive generators.

  The ballroom instantly became less a dance floor than a flurry of slow-motion acrobatics.

  Sten blessed his null-grav training when Lisa, looking bewildered as her gown billowed around her waist, floated past him. He tucked and swam toward her, grabbing an ankle first, then working his way up until he had her by both hands.

  Lisa recovered, smiled, and resorted to the traditional " 'nother fine fix."

  Sten had no idea what she was talking about, but decided to seize the instant.

  Weightless kisses taste about the same, even if there does seem to be a sudden excess of saliva.

  Seizing the instant also meant that Sten, watching out of the corner of his eye, dolphin-bent his legs, waiting. Until a flustered matron floated nearby.

  Sten used his feet as a kickoff point, and the drive sent Lisa and him spinning down toward the floor. They bounced near the edge of the field, close enough for Sten to pir
ouette Haines sideways onto a normal-grav floor. She in turn dragged him out of the McLean field.

  "Nice party," Sten managed.

  "Mmm," Lisa said. "So zero-gee winds you up, Captain?"

  "Isn't heterosexual love odd in its incarnations?" Marr whispered after closely watching Lisa and Sten's slow orbit.

  "Perambulations is the word you're looking for," Senn corrected. "Shall we arrange those for later?"

  "Regardless. We should take them under wing, and—Sr. Hakone! You honor us!"

  Hakone had approached them unnoticed. He sipped from his half-empty glass of quill.

  "As the guest of honor, may I comment on the evening thus far?"

  Senn opened his liquid-black eyes in mock astonishment. "Is anything wrong?"

  "For a party that purported to be in my honor," Hakone said, "I find too many people here who would like to use my bones for toothpicks."

  "We made our invitations before your masque was previewed, Sr. Hakone," Marr said. "We had no knowledge—"

  "Of course you hadn't," Hakone said dryly. "You two aren't the sort who believe a party is best gauged by the number of duels it creates."

  "You offend!" Senn hissed.

  "Perhaps." Hakone was indifferent. He drained his glass and fielded another from a passing tray. "My idea of a gathering, after all, is a group of comrades, with something in common to share. Evidently we differ in that regard."

  "If we had known," Marr pacified, "that you wished a group of fellow ex-soldiers to sit around and become comatose while sharing lies of your long-gone youth, we would have done so."

  Hakone allowed a smile to crawl across his face. The writer was dressed entirely in black, close-fitting trousers and a flowing tunic. "As I said before, we differ. By the way—one man I would like to meet."

  "There is someone we didn't introduce to you? Our failing."

  "Him."

  Hakone waved a hand toward Sten, who was recovering his sense of gravity with a full glass.

  Marr flicked a glance at Senn. Puzzlement. Then took Hakone by the hand and led him over to Sten.

  "Captain Sten?"

  Sten, who was about to kiss Lisa again, turned, recognized his hosts and, thanks to his cram course in the palace files, the guest of honor.