Tale of the Spinward March: The Great Khan (Tales of the Spinward March Book 1)

by David Winnie

  Buru gathered himself and with a shaking hand, pressed it.

  In ancient times, the cremation would go on for hours as the fires did their work to free the soul from its body. This machine worked swiftly and silently. Minutes after Buru pressed the button, the attendant entered the room holding an urn decorated with yellow flowers. Buru startled visibly as the urn, still warm, was pressed into his hands. He was swift in presenting his mother’s ashes to Angkor.

  At the river’s edge waited the Brahmana, holding a small silver spoon. Angkor opened the top of the urn so the holy man could scoop a portion of the warm ash. He held it over the water and prayed, “Lady Ganga, we give to you now Sophia, daughter of Ham and Aie. Dutiful wife of Angkor. Mother of Buru. Grandmother and friend. She has been a pious daughter of your Lord Bhadrakali. We ask you take her in, cleanse her of all her sins and give her residence in your palace beyond.” He upended the spoon just as a gust of wind came up. Sophia’s ashes cascaded from the spoon, were caught upon the light breeze and scattered. As she settled near the water, the lightest of her remains swirled and danced above the surface of the Holy Ganga before gently settling on the surface and beginning her journey downstream to the sea.

  The Brahmana spread his arms. His voice was clear and loud, joined by the thousands around him in the singing of the Bhajans, the song of the thousand names of Vishnu.

  The servant held a silver tray bearing the note. “Son, I should like to meet with you before you depart. Father.”

  Buru was tempted to crumple the note and throw it to the floor. On most any other day, he might very well have done just such a thing. But they had gathered to honor Mother. As angry as he was with his father, he could not act dishonorably on this day.

  The room was a small study near his father’s office. Books lined the walls, a pair of creased leather chairs lounged on either side of a polished wooden table. On a delicate lace cloth sat Sophia’s urn with a framed image of her next to it. Father, wearing a fine blue suit, stood staring out the lone window in the room.

  “Ah, Buru, good,” his father motioned. “Sit, please, my son. Tea?”

  Buru nodded his assent. Angkor poured three cups, placing sugar and milk in one and setting it before Mother’s urn. Just as she liked it, recalled Buru. Angkor set the sugar and milk next to Buru and placed a pat of yak butter in his own cup. Buru made a face.

  “I know, your mother would chide me for drinking my tea Mongolian fashion,” said Angkor. “I take it you never developed the taste, either.”

  “Milk is fine, Father,” answered his son. They sat for long, silent minutes. Angkor sipped his tea and said, “You were right. That night, your mother told me she understood why you did what you did. It has taken me many years to understand. Your mother’s death brought it finally into full focus for me. You would have hated this job worse than I hate it and in turn, would have hated me. I could not live with myself if I knew you hated me.

  “But she understood what I did, as well. She also told me she disagreed with both of us.” He flashed a small smile. “Leave it to your mother to see three sides to our dispute.” Buru snorted.

  “I have been watching you, Buru, “Angkor continued. “I know you are a landowner now and a member of your local government. I understand you are considering a run for your world’s Council?”

  “Mother told you this.”

  “Yes and many other things. I knew she wrote you and slipped away from time to time, on the excuse of going to Indianola, to see you. She always came home happier after seeing you. I am sure she would not want us to continue this dispute.”

  “There is no dispute, Father,” said Buru. “I have made my decision and I stand by it.”

  “Yes,” his father said, his voice full of regret, “and I am very, very proud of you.” His eyes welled with tears. “I only wish your mother would have heard me tell you that.”

  “I think she knew,” Buru said, his eyes also wet. He pulled a portable holo from his pocket. “You have three grandchildren, Father. Jaakob, Andruu and Pia.” An image of the children rose from the table. “My wife and I have another on the way.”

  “Oh my,” gasped Angkor. “Your daughter has her mother’s eyes.”

  “And her attitude as well.” For the next hour, Buru slowly showed his father images of his family. Angkor laughed, cooed and expressed surprise at the antics of his son’s children. When the images finished, he blew out a happy sigh. “A fortunate man, you are, Son. Yes, a most fortunate man.”

  “I don’t recall this image of Mother.” Buru picked up the framed image.

  “That’s funny,” Angkor said. “I took that the morning you were born. Your mother hated it; she was so tired, being up all night with our surrogate. But she refused to leave her side, wanting to see you enter the universe. Of all the images I have of your mother, it is my favorite.”

  Buru set the image back next to the urn. “No, son, I want you to have it,” Angkor said. “I have thousands of images of her, and I have her here in my heart.” He tapped his chest. “But this one, given the circumstance, this one I want you to have.”

  “Thank you, Father,” said Buru. He replaced his holo-emitter in his jacket and stood. Fumbling with his mother’s image, he faced his father. “I need to go. My shuttle is waiting. There is one more thing I want you to know. On Luftstra, we have read your law carefully. We are having much debate about it. In my own home, my wife and I argue about it constantly. But she approves of much of your law. I would not be surprised if Luftstra applies for membership within the next ten years.”

  Angkor stood and opened his arms. Buru shook his head. “No, Father,” he said. “We had a good conversation today. But I am not ready to forgive you completely. Yet. Please, let us give it some time.”

  Angkor lowered his arms. “You will call me?” he asked. “From time to time? And perhaps send me more images of your family?”

  “From time to time, Father.” He gripped the doorknob, then faced Angkor once more.

  His father was holding Sophia’s urn to his chest and was weeping. Buru now realized how aged his father had become. His rich, black hair was streaked with grey, his face lined with deep furrows. Father’s hands, always so strong, were shaking slightly and had a dusting of spots across them.

  Buru inhaled deeply through his nose. “Mother was murdered, Father.”

  “Yes.”

  “I want revenge.”

  “Not so much as I, my son.”

  “Do you know who did this?” Buru asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I want to know who is responsible!”

  “Go home, Buru,” Angkor ordered. “I need to do this carefully, quietly. Be assured, Son, your mother’s murderers will be punished for their misdeeds to our family.

  And I will be certain they suffer.”

  Chapter 30

  June 3070-July 3071 A.D.

  Upon returning to the Keep, Angkor disappeared into a laboratory he commandeered for himself. He emerged after a week, haggard and demanding gastroenterologists and endocrinologists. The first who attended him he deemed unsatisfactory. Calls went out to the great research universities of the Empire and the finest in both disciplines were assembled for the Khan.

  He selected a dozen of each at random and they disappeared behind the doors of his laboratory again. Four weeks later they emerged, the doctors returning to their studies, the Khan to his stable. He stopped only long enough to change into traditional travelling clothes, breeches, boots, jerkin and cap. Angkor selected a roan pony and departed deep into the desert, demanding no guards or attendants. Ever-cautious security officers orbited the lone horseman at an altitude that their Khan couldn’t detect. Cognizant of the fact that Angkor wanted time to clear his head in the emptiness of the desert, they allowed him an empty desert. But only empty enough.

  His travels took him deep into the Gobi. Ten days he rode, stopping only to tend to his pony and refill his water bag. Rations needed only a bit of water and heat f
rom his portable power supply. He had long ago learned to sleep and eat from the saddle.

  On the tenth day, surrounded by only scrub and rocks, he climbed off his horse and sat. The pony wandered about, nibbling at the thorny, dry plants struggling to survive in the harsh world. Angkor sat, elbow to knee, holding his chin. The computations and patterns flowed through his thoughts; he turned them and they rolled through again. After five days, he decided there was an error. He whistled to the pony and rode back to the Keep.

  Once again, the call went out for the scientists. Angkor selected a different group and sequestered them in his lab again. After a month, the scientists left. Angkor again rode a pony out of the Keep, this time heading north into the mountains. Again, his reflections revealed an error.

  Again and again, four more times, scientists were summoned, worked with the Khan in his laboratory, only to be turned out so the Khan could go into seclusion to review the progress. His sojourns into the desert and the mountains grew longer. His weight loss became obvious; aides tried to fuss over him when he returned. The Kurultai members met with the bonzes in the Keep who were raising the heirs, seeking which was the readiest, should the Khan break down completely, necessitating his replacement. Ng, the chief bonze would only smile and say, “We are on schedule. When the time comes, the new Khan will be ready.”

  It was after the turn of the year. The scientists who came to serve the Khan departed as their predecessors had, five times before. The Khan had dressed in his warmest traveling clothes and departed across the frozen desert. He was grateful to find his aides had correctly guessed his destination, erecting a well-stocked yurt for him and his pony.

  For ten days, the winter winds howled and tore at his shelter. He heard it not. The temperatures plummeted, but he paid it no mind. The formulas ran through his head over and over. He checked each line, each character, then checked each again. He could find no error.

  With a final nod, he saddled his horse.

  He studied the image closely. The arch of her eyebrows, the left a tiny bit lower on one end than the right. The long slope of her nose. The tiny curl of her soft lips. The tip of her chin. He missed her, every inch of her. He had wondered if the pain of her passing would ever fade; it was as real today as it had been at the moment he watched her die.

  He kissed her image. “Tonight, my love,” he told her. “Tonight I strike down your murderers. I know you would not want me to do this for you. But I am a Khalkha warrior and they have touched my woman.”

  The room was perfect. Angkor had selected the dining room with a magnificent vista of the mountains. The setting sun washed the room in golden light, a sign, he was certain, that she approved.

  It was the finest table ever set in the Empire. The linens were premium ivory, the silver gleamed from hand polishing. Five settings of gilded china and lead cut glass. Angkor put Sophia’s image next to his setting where he could look to her. A discrete knock, then a servant opened the door and announced, “Sire, your guests are here.”

  “Show them in,” ordered Angkor. “Notify my major domo. Exactly in the order in my instructions, particularly the cocktails.”

  Xaid swept into the room, followed by Dawlish and Salaam. “Angkor, my dear friend,” Xaid’s fawn skin-covered hands reach out to Angkor. He dressed impeccably, of course, in a white silk suit, his turban stiff around his head. A gleaming opal in silver peaked his dress. “Thank you for inviting us to share this meal with you.” Salaam also extended his hand and greeted his old friend.

  Dawlish, in his General’s uniform, saluted his Khan, albeit with a suspicious eye.

  “My friends, sit, please,” Angkor beckoned to the setting. Once all were settled, the wine steward filled their glasses with a rubicund wine. “One year ago today, my precious wife crossed over to the next world,” Angkor said. “Tonight, on the first anniversary of her death, we honor her and her traditions by holding Shraddha, the ritual meal for the dead. Gentlemen, Sophia.” They raised their glasses and returned the salutation.

  “I have many surprises for you this evening, my friends.” promised the Khan. “First, my dear, if you please?”

  An apparition appeared in the corner. The column of light extended into three dimensions, then slowly arranged itself. Sophia, in her younger days from the market, wearing a familiar sea green sari. She glided to the table, taking her place next to Angkor. The men gaped at her soft, curled hair wafted in an unseen breeze, her opal eyes sparkling from an inner light. She demurely smiled and said, “Good evening, friends of my husband.”

  “Angkor, what manner of madness is this?” demanded Salaam. “My friend, this is not Sophia. This is unnatural, obscene. Where did you come by this…thing?”

  “Be calm, my friends,” soothed Angkor. “This was a gift from an engineering student from Iowa University in Occident. I believe he meant it as a memorandum for me. Don’t worry, I know it is not my Sophia. It was a kind gesture. Observe.

  My dear?”

  The holo-Sophia turned to Angkor, “Yes, my husband?” it asked.

  “Don’t you have something for me to show our guests?”

  I do!” she glided over to a tabernacle mounted to the wall. She unlocked the chest and carried the urn within to the table, placing it at the setting next to Angkor. “Thank you, my dear,” he said. “You may shut down now.” The holo-Sophia nodded and deresolved into an eight-inch disk hovering where her waist had been.

  Angkor plucked the disk from the air, walked to the balcony and flung it into the night. “I will not need this after tonight,” he told them. “Tonight, I complete the ritual mourning and may continue with my life.”

  A second glass of wine was poured. “My friends, I give you the honored guest of our celebration tonight, my wife Sophia.” The men stood and raised their glasses to the urn and drank.

  They dined mostly in silence. Salaam and Xaid tried to speak with Angkor, but his responses were single words or grunts. Dawlish eyed his Khan, casting furtive glances at his friends. His inner voice screamed of danger. He had no overt reason to be cautious. Nevertheless, he maintained his guard.

  The supper finished, a cheese plate was laid out. They were served a flute containing a milky yellow drink. “My friends, this is a special preparation I created for just this evening,” Angkor said. “I started work on it years ago and tonight it is perfect. I can think of no one I would rather share it with than you, my old friends.

  “Each morning I wake up with the light and promise of the new day before the weight of my life comes down on me and I remember that Sophia is gone. I turn to her as I did for more than thirty years to kiss her just one more time and she isn’t there.

  “I remember something she read me once. ‘Let us be grateful to the people who make us happy; they are the gardeners who make our souls blossom.’ Today marks one year since my soul and my wife died.” He raised the glass and drank.

  Angkor watched as his friends drained the beverage. Xaid had an unpleasant look on his face. No matter, Angkor hadn’t cared what the potion would taste like. Only that it worked.

  The servants removed the glasses and placed a tiny glass before each man. In each glass was an amber syrup. Angkor picked his up and stared into the glass.

  “To me, the most tragic fact of my wife’s death is she was murdered. Murdered by you, her friends.”

  “What madness is this!” demanded Xaid. “You call us here to honor our friend! Your wife! And now you accuse us of her murder! Have you gone completely mad?”

  “Yes, Angkor, how could you possibly say such a thing?” said Salaam. “Were she alive today and here right now, surely she would admonish you for such foolishness!”

  Dawlish picked up the small glass. Turned it in his fingers, stared at it. “Poison,” he said finally.

  “Yes,” said Angkor. “And if I were you, I’d drink that quickly. Two of you are receiving the antidote. The third? Well, I may or may not have their antidote in my hands.”

  “Give that to me
this instant!” Xaid tried to leap across the table. Alas, too many years of soft living and opulent meals had expanded his waistline. He flopped on the table, then slid off, overturning the perfect setting. He clawed at the tablecloth whining and blubbering.

  “I warn you, Xaid, you do not wish to spill your cup. It may have your antidote. It may not. As for my trophy.” He tipped his head back and poured the fluid into his mouth.

  Dawlish eyed the Khan, then swallowed the contents of his glass. “You said you’ve been working on this for years?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Angkor nodded, “since the day you murdered my father. Ryder Finn supplied me with the original autopsy. The weapon was a military grade sniper rail weapon. The same weapon used to assassinate Ameranda Whitehorse. But it was not one of your soldiers who murdered my father. There is a single entity in the Empire who could accomplish both the Whitehorse killing and my father’s murder.”

  Salaam placed his fist over his mouth and coughed.

  “I would drink your antidote, gentleman,” Angkor said. “The poison I devised is quite exquisite and fast acting.”

  Xaid glared at the emperor, then drank the liquid swiftly. Salaam held the glass up questioningly. “You’ll never know for sure if you don’t drink.” Angkor’s voice was not unkind.

  Salaam drank. And immediately coughed it up, spraying the fluid and half his dinner on the table.

  “When I realized that you murdered Tenzing to put me on the throne, I became cautious. My laboratory was built to create the Vinithri queen and my heirs. But it also served for me to examine each of your DNA. As time went on, I shelved the project, thinking you were loyal subjects to my rule. But Dawlish convinced me otherwise. You are a fine officer, old friend. When you confronted me in my office, demanding I treat you as the Chief of Staff years ago, I could see our decision to promote you was the correct one.