by David Winnie
It was a spectacular tour for the Union. Angkor and Sophia were an attractive, cosmopolitan couple. She wore a variety of saris at each stop. Soon, the fashion houses across the Union were clamoring for silks and fabrics to fashion the chic garment. Whole stores sold out of Sophia’s new glamorous look and jewelry in hours.
Tumultuous cheering would erupt when the couple would step from the ground car to the adoring crowds. Sophia would shyly acknowledge the cheers while Angkor would step to the microphone and announce, “For those of you who don’t know me, I am Angkor Khan, son of Tenzing, the man lucky to accompany Sophia Khan to your world.”
Angkor was proud to have his beautiful wife on his arm and amused to see the excitement she created. He dressed conservatively in brown or blue suits and gave masterful speeches written by his father’s best writers. He was a welcome guest on each world’s news programs, speaking little of the battle, instead speaking of his vision of the Terran Union.
“There should be a common set of laws,” he would explain, “common sense laws unburdened by excessive explanation and niggardly detail. Simple enough for school children to learn so when they become adults, all of us know what is expected, what is allowed and what is not. The law should be strict of course, punishment swift and severe. In this way, we will have a secure, prosperous people and Union.”
The speeches were received with great enthusiasm. The people worshipped the handsome young man who shared his vision for each of them. A news feed on Vespa questioned the new law, asking what the punishments might be. After all, Vespa had one of the most forward thinking reformatory policies in the Union and recidivism was low. They pointed out the Khalkha punishment for stealing could be as severe as being tortured to death, depending on the enormity of the crime. One day after the editorial, the news feed offices were burned to the ground and the writer of the article was found in the great forest, half consumed by a deadly Vearchka cat.
For Angkor and Sophia, it was a chance to travel and spend time together. The tour was tightly scheduled, and each day saw them as slaves to the careful plan laid out by their handlers. Nevertheless, for all the speeches and dinners, receptions and tours of various wonders, they were together. From time to time, they were able to snatch a quiet moment alone. That Sophia was at his side gave Angkor great comfort. Even in a teeming crowd of shouting well-wishers, he could escape for a moment, ignoring everything and everyone around him, focusing on the most important person in his life.
The placement of the stone that is Sophia was incredibly harmonious, he often thought. No matter the flow of the rest of my fountain, she is the single, purest note.
The twin suns of Tantalus IV were bright and inviting as Angkor stepped from the air car delivering him to the convention center. He closed his eyes and warmed his face for a moment in the welcome sunlight. Tantalus IV was an agricultural world, suppling needed foodstuffs to the Union. While a majority of people’s diets were of protein algae grown on nearly every world, Tantalus supplied hard to grow vegetables and fruits, highly prized throughout the Union.
Sophia was off visiting schools while he gave his speech to local farmers and businessmen. He thanked them for their support of the Union and laid out his plan for the future of them all.
The lunch was bolindia medallions with local vegetables. Angkor relished visiting Tantalus; he and Sophia had never eaten so well since leaving Terra. Doubtlessly she was eating the local version of a cafeteria lunch and acting as if she were being fed a feast. Her adaptability to any situation on this trip, her warmth and grace had the crowds clamoring for more.
His speech was well received. The audience laughed at the appropriate times, stood and cheered at his bullet points and finished with the accustomed ovation. Angkor waved to the crowd and returned to his seat.
Or tried to. An Army officer had stepped out onto the stage with a pair of guards in battle gear. “Please, sir,” the officer insisted, “you need to come with us.”
“What is the meaning of this?” exclaimed Angkor.
“Sir, I can’t say. You just need to come with us,” insisted the officer. He grabbed Angkor’s arm.
The room gave a low rumble. Farmers are a protective lot. To see anyone grabbed by an armed group was sure to draw their ire. “Here, now, what’s all this then?” A tall, rawboned farmer stood. He was Tomas Engle, a respected farmer on this world. The emblem of his farm, a stylized lion, was inked on his forearm.
The soldiers eyed Tomas warily. “Sirs, there is a situation,” the officer explained. “The Khan is urgently needed back on his ship. If you would excuse us?” He hustled Angkor to the door.
“My wife, where is my wife?” Angkor demanded.
“She is being handled by another team,” explained the officer. “Now if you’ll come with me, please?”
“No.” Angkor shrugged off the grip of the officer. “Not another step until you tell me where is my wife?”
The officer glared, then his face softened. “Of course, sir,” he answered. He touched his headset. “Control, team one,” he stated. “Sawbones wants to know about Goldilocks? Says he won’t move unless…. Yes sir, I will tell him.” He released the headset. “She is safe, sir,” he reported. “On her way to the Siene we speak. Somewhere I need to get you to immediately, sir.” He grabbed Angkor’s arm again, hustled him into the street and deposited him unceremoniously into a waiting ground car.
They had landed a shuttle in an athletic field near the meeting center. The car nearly hit the ship, the door yanked open and Angkor found himself pulled from the car and into the ship. Even before the ramp closed, the shuttle was streaking to the heavens.
Angkor was seated in a lounge and handed a warm towel. He spied another army officer and asked, “What is going on, Lieutenant? Where is my wife? Are we going to her?”
“Your wife is secure on your ship, sir,” he was told. “The commodore needs to see you on the Fisticuffs pronto. We’re heading there now. You just sit back and enjoy the ride, y’hear?”
Southwest Occident, Angkor thought. Many of my finest officers come from Occident. He dismissed the thought and waited, focusing on what he knew as opposed to what he didn’t.
The Fisticuffs came into view. This newest of the modern Terran Navy, he was one thousand yards long at the cigar shaped primary hull and two hundred fifty yards in diameter. Two additional barbettes, nearly as long as the hull, added another two hundred yards to each side. Inside the barbettes were the engineering and primary weapons. The Fisticuffs’ primary weapon was a pair of newly developed meson rifles, one to each side. Several turrets blistered his hull, containing mainly close range lasers. In its black and grey tactical paint, Angkor shuddered for the poor aliens who would have to face the Fisticuffs
They approached the belly of the destroyer. Angkor could see the heavy clamps that held Fisticuffs and his brothers to the fold rail for interstellar trips. Between them was the shuttle bay. The shuttle shuddered and banged as it climbed up into the middle of the destroyer. Angkor was pleased to see both ships survived the encounter, though the pilot apologized profusely: “Sir, the auto docking system for Fisticuffs clearly has calibration issues.”
“Nevertheless, we are here, more or less safely. Thank you, pilot.”
Commodore Ridgely was resplendent in his white naval uniform, his rail thin body at stiff attention as Angkor entered the wardroom. He’s sweating, noted Angkor. They’re all sweating. This must be some very bad news, indeed.
He instinctively took the head seat at the table. The Commodore hesitated, then sat to Angkor’s right. His hands fumbled on the tabletop and his eyes shifted nervously before settling on the young man. He took a deep breath, blowing it out forcefully. His voice broke as he said, “Sir, I have news that is not only dreadful for our Terran Union, but will be tragic for you personally.” He glanced around the room, then nervously took Angkor’s hand in his own and said, “Sir, I regret to inform you that your father is dead.”
Chapter 20
>
November 3053 A.D.
The streets of Ulaan Baatar were quiet. The noises of a bustling city were unusually muted. The whole of the city and its inhabitants were in silent contemplation.
Tenzing had been quite detailed in his will. The grand state funeral for the leader of the Terran Union had been held in the main square in Zurich. His body had then been flown to the capitol of the Mongolian Empire for a funeral befitting a Headman.
He had resided in state at the government house for three days as tradition demanded. He was magnificent, wearing the traditional jerkin, trousers and boots of a Mongolian warrior. His cap was the flat, black furred hat of the Khan. Seated on a simple wooden throne, he held a bow in one hand, a whip in the other. Mourners knelt, touched their foreheads to the floor and chanted, “I offer my life to you, my Khan, in this world and the next.”
Tenzing’s wives were on the left-hand side of his throne, each wearing sackcloth, covered in ashes and wailing. Their mournful chorus was the only sound on the square, save for the low murmuring as each citizen knelt before his leader.
Angkor stood to the right of the Khan’s throne as tradition demanded of the heir. He noted without emotion which of the ministers and officers honored his father by following the tradition in its strictest sense. There were those few who merely bowed or failed to swear the eternal fealty. Those he filed away in his head. There would be time for them later.
On the third day, Tenzing’s eight most honored companions mounted poles to the throne and carried it to the main temple of Ulaan Baatar. Ryder Finn was not present. The Mithrandian was still being sought for the murder of Suishin.
The Temple prayer ceremony was mercifully short. Incense was burned, prayers offered and incantations chanted. The Khan’s throne was borne up again. As the will specified, the journey to his Keep, one hundred twenty miles away, was to be as in the ancient times. Mongolian soldiers would carry the throne and march the whole of the distance to the cadence of a solitary drum.
The people lined the ancient highway, kneeling as their leader passed on the way to his eternal rest. Garlands of flowers were tossed along the whole route. Local priests chanted prayers, their multicolored robes adding color along the dreary journey. Ordinary citizens cried their laments or bowed and swore their fealty as the upper crust of Mongolian society had done, back in the city.
Sophia insisted her exhausted husband take rest during the week-long parade. He had not slept well since Tenzing’s death. He was insistent that he view the events of his father’s death, during the speech in Buenos Aires. Tenzing was magnificent on the sunny day in the stunning port city. The crowds chanted his name and cheered wildly as he waved and shook their hands. He ascended the dais and was giving a marvelous speech, spreading his arms wide and basking in the cheers of the excited crowd.
Then the clutch to his chest. His eyes going wide, his mouth gasping. He dropped to a knee, then toppled over, convulsing. Aides and soldiers surrounding their fallen leader. A shuttle appeared. Tenzing was loaded ungracefully while the crowd milled and cried out, trying to understand what they had just seen.
The announcement came an hour later. Toni Rebeyessa, his willowy Press Secretary from Luna appear at the hospital doors where an anxious crowd had gathered. Her eyes were red and teary, her voice quavered. “Tenzing Khan, son of Moi,” she announced, “has suffered a massive coronary event. Despite the efforts of the splendid staff of Saint Maria’s hospital, our leader has died. Excuse me, please.” She broke down completely, burying her face in her hands and weeping uncontrollably.
The news flashed across Terra and throughout the Union. Black bordered images were displayed on every form of media; posters appeared immediately on most walls and public forum.
Tenzing had warned him they had enemies. Which, Father? He wondered. Those without? Or those within? He would need to move carefully. But duty first.
The funeral procession arrived at the Keep. Bonzes led them into the depths to the crypt of the headmen of the Khalkha. Tenzing, still seated on his throne, was placed within his tomb with gentle care. His wives and advisors hung garlands of marigolds on the body and throne, then kissed him on the cheek.
Angkor was the last to enter. He draped his garland around his father’s neck and leaned close. “I do not believe you died of a simple heart attack, Father,” he whispered. “I shall avenge you and complete your dream.”
Strong masons pushed the onerous stone door into place, grinding stone on stone until the door dropped into the channel cut in the floor with a hollow thud. Steel screeched in the silent tomb as the heavy hasps were closed. Angkor donned heavy gloves and was handed the signet. Ministers threaded six seals in the hasps, holding them taught as Angkor sealed his father’s tomb.
“It is finished,” Angkor announced. “Thank you for honoring my father. Now, please leave, I wish to spend time alone with him before this ossuary is closed.” Silently the priests and ministers left Angkor to his meditations.
Sophia embraced her husband, kissing him softly on his cheek. “I will be in our apartment, Husband,” she told him. “When you are ready, I will be waiting.” The door closed behind her. Angkor sat in lotus, cleared his mind and began to reflect.
A soft footfall approached. “I was sure you would show for his interment at the very least, Ryder,” Angkor stated without surprise. “Come into the light and join me in my reflection.”
Ryder Finn stepped into the dim yellow pool of light. Gnarled hands, spotted with purple age spots and raised violet veins pulled back his hood. His blue face was more lined than Angkor recalled. The old Mithranderer placed a shaking hand on the door of the vault and pressed his head against it. Angkor watched as he murmured unintelligible entreaties, then straightened, sniffling and wiping his nose.
“Thank you for that, Angkor. I was hoping you would let me say goodbye to my oldest friend.”
“Honor would demand no less. And I owe you a debt I can never repay.”
Ryder pursed his lips. “So you have come to accept your destiny.”
“It would seem I have no choice.”
“No,” was Ryder’s regretful response.
“Tell me why my father forced me to murder my brother,” Angkor asked. “And why did you accept the blame for his death?”
Ryder slid to the floor, his back against the crypt, exhaling. “We, your father and I, had to know if you could do the unthinkable,” he said. “Mithranderer told your great grandfather that your line will lead your people to godhood one day.”
He smiled and winked. “Mithranderer would never admit it, but she can be wrong from time to time. Still, having examined your records, I could find no error in her reasoning.
“Nevertheless, we had to be sure. We had sent you away to receive the best education we could provide. Suishin squandered his gifts and education and corrupted his body with drugs, bringing dishonor to his family through his perversions.
“Had you failed to kill your brother, I would have killed him, anyway. You would have been accused of the murder, but we would have made sure you were acquitted. Your dishonor would have set our plans back twenty years, but you would still prevail as the Leader, albeit much later.”
“It seems fortuitous that you and my father were correct,” commented Angkor, “given my solution to the Galactic Council and their lackeys, the Vinithri.”
“Ah, the Vinithri,” Ryder brightened. “I spoke with Mithranderer after your war. She is most insistent that you, yourself, intervene in the negotiations. She says they are an unexpected but necessary factor to your line’s godhood.”
They sat in silence, each lost in his own thoughts. Finally, Angkor said, “I am the leader now. I can grant you a pardon for my brother’s death. There will be questions, but none will dare disobey my edict. You could sit by my side as my advisor as you did for my father. We could even become…friends.”
“Thank you, Angkor,” Ryder responded, genuinely touched, “but I must decline. I am one hundred ninety,
old for either of our races. I find myself longing to return home and retire into quiet communion with Mithranderer. Soon, my body will fail and I will be embraced to the bosom of She Who Holds Us All.
“I am sure you understand now that you cannot trust any of your friends. Your father…”
“Was murdered, yes,” Angkor answered in a flat voice. “I watched the vid. I suspect a needle gun.”
Ryder reached into his jacket and withdrew a data stick. “This file contains the real autopsy,” he said, tossing it to the younger man. “You are correct. A mag-rail weapon, specifically designed for this kind of killing. It is a military weapon, but I have received reports there is an ancient criminal organization which has obtained a several of these weapons. They call themselves the hashashin.”
Angkor’s face remained stoic as his brain screamed, “SALAAM SARKIS!” He had never officially known Salaam’s role in the murders of Alexis Shurkorov or Ameranda Whitestone. His own agents had reported the leader of the terrorist organization was buried in the Egyptian government. Which could only mean Dawlish Zoltan and Xaid Singh were involved as well.
He stared at the three stones in the fountain. What he thought had harmony was revealed to be discordant, foul, obscene. He gagged at the masque. “What am I to do?” he thought, his rage straining against the ropes of his control. He wanted to grab the stones and fling them as far as he could.
“But to what end?” His Center sat in lotus next to the fountain. “If you throw the stones, you only have to go find them later,” his center inculcated. “Rather, if you leave them in place, you can adjust them back into accordance.”
“So I should just ignore them?”
“Of course not! Keep a close eye on them. Adjust them carefully.” His Center grinned, baring his teeth. “Then, when the time is right, you gather them and smash them to dust.”
