Empire's End

by Chris Bunch

  For a long time now he and his men had worried over the Emperor's deteriorating personality. His actions turned their stomachs. They could not understand how a soldier they admired—Ian Mahoney—could become a traitor. And there was absolutely no way they would believe Sten, once their commander, and still, as far as anyone knew, having one platoon of Gurkhas serving under him, would turn his coat, even against the rabid beast the Emperor had become.

  All of the Gurkhas had wanted to quit. The only thing that had stopped them was their sworn oath—and the certain knowledge the Emperor would consider the action a grave insult.

  He would kill them all.

  Worse, they feared for their people in far-off Nepal. None of the Gurkhas doubted that the Emperor would remove Nepal from the face of the planet for such a betrayal.

  But now—joy, oh, joy, the heavens smiled and the Gurkha were fired. What a blessing to come from such a barbarian as that Poyndex.

  Not that Chethabahadur forgave him his rude behavior. Someday he would kill the man.

  If this was not possible, Chethabahadur's son would kill Poyndex's son.

  For the Gurkhas had very long memories.

  Poyndex watched with amazement as the woman, Baseeker, abased herself before the Eternal Emperor.

  "Oh, Lord, I am blinded by your exalted presence. My limbs tremble. My brain is a fever. My tongue a thick stump unable to form words befitting your full glory."

  Poyndex buried a smile. He thought her tongue was working just fine. The new high priestess of the Cult of the Eternal Emperor was prostrate on her god's office floor.

  "You may rise," the Emperor said solemnly. Poyndex was only mildly surprised at how seriously the Emperor seemed to be taking this interview.

  Baseeker came to her knees, beat her head several times against the ground in further obeisance, then came the rest of the way to her feet. Poyndex saw the glitter of pleasure in the Emperor's eyes and congratulated himself in his choice to replace Zoran as the new high priestess. Baseeker had absorbed his coaching and then bettered it by several hundred percent.

  "Please. Do sit down," the Emperor said, fussing over the woman. "May I offer you any refreshment?"

  Baseeker slid into the indicated chair, poised at the edge as if relaxation would be a blasphemy. "Thank you, Lord. But allow this humble seeker of truth to reject your kindness. I could not possibly take mortal nourishment at this time. Permit me, instead, to continue to feed my spirit upon the ethers of your holy presence."

  Poyndex doubted whether Baseeker ever fed on much of anything—except personal ambition. She was all bone and gristle, wrapped tight with skin so pale it was nearly translucent. She was of indeterminate age, with a severely pinched face, sharp incisors peeking through thin lips, and eyes like small bright beads. Like a rat's, Poyndex thought.

  "Whatever pleases you," the Emperor said, waving grandly.

  Baseeker nodded, tucking her white robe around bony knees.

  The Emperor indicated a sheaf of paper on his desk. "I've studied your proposals for reorganization quite thoroughly," he said. "An impressive job."

  "Thank you, Lord," Baseeker said. "But it could not have been done without your inspiration. Frankly, the cult was left in complete disarray by my late predecessor—Zoran. Our purpose is to glorify you… and educate your subjects on your divine mission. But these things were left shamefully undone."

  "I see you have added a new program," the Emperor said. "A proposal to build worship centers in all the major capitals of the Empire."

  Baseeker bowed her head. "I'd hoped it would meet your favor."

  Poyndex lifted his eyes to keep from laughing. They fell on the painting above the Emperor. It was an ultraromantic, ultramuscular portrait of the Emperor, posing heroically. The painting was in commemoration of the Battle of the Gates, which the portrait indicated he had won single-handedly. Poyndex happened to know the Emperor never was even vaguely near the fighting in question.

  The painting was one of a whole gallery glorifying the Emperor. They were from the awful collection of the late Tanz Sullamora. Ordered to track them down, Poyndex's IS agents had found them rightfully discarded in a museum trash heap. Now they hung frame edge to frame edge along the office walls.

  The effect was unsettling, to say the least. All those saintly Imperial eyes staring down at him. It was like hallucinating on spoiled narcobeer.

  He forced his attention back to the interview. He saw Baseeker's small eyes fire brighter. "This proposal is nothing, Lord, compared to my true vision," she said, full of holy fervor. "I see temples to your exalted self in every town and city of the Empire. Where your subjects can gather together and bask in your glory."

  "Really?" the Emperor said. "I had no idea there were so many potential converts."

  "How can it be otherwise, Lord?" Baseeker said. "For is it not written in our holy scriptures that soon your worshippers will outnumber the stars in the heavens? And that they will praise your name as the one true God of us all?"

  Even the Emperor was embarrassed by this. He coughed into a closed fist. "Uh… Yes. The way you put it… I suppose it does make sense."

  "We only lack funds, Lord," Baseeker said, "to put this program fully into motion."

  The Emperor frowned. "I've already supplied a sufficiency of funds. Have I not?"

  "Oh, but you have, Lord," Baseeker backpedaled. "And in my opinion, this has been an unfair—bordering on blasphemous—burden. In my view, those who benefit most should bear the cost. Your humble subjects, Lord, should be the ones to pay.

  "I do not think it seemly for a living god to pay for his own temples. But, we—your faithful subjects—have been denied this small pleasure, Lord. And it is the fault of our political leaders, I fear. They're too busy lining their own pockets instead."

  "Very well put," the Emperor said. "And refreshingly so."

  He turned to Poyndex. "I'm getting tired of those penny-pinchers in the Parliament. It's time for them to put their credits where their mouths are. Get together with Avri and work up some kind of funding bill. A subject so loyal as this woman shouldn't have to go begging for funds for such a worthy proposal."

  "Yes, Your Highness. I'll do it immediately."

  The Emperor shifted back to Baseeker. "I have one request."

  "Anything, Lord."

  "I'd like you to sift through the membership. Ferret out the most ardent believers."

  "We would all lay our lives down for you, Lord."

  "Yes… But some are always going to be more willing than others. You know the type I mean."

  Baseeker nodded. The word "fanatic" was the unspoken answer.

  "I want them organized into a core group. I have some of special training in mind for them. Training, Poyndex's people can supply."

  "Yes, Lord"

  "They are to hold themselves ready. Until they hear from me. Then they are to act instantly, and without question."

  "Yes, Lord. These… missions… you have in mind? I assume they will be dangerous?"

  "Yes. Possibly even suicidal."

  Baseeker smiled. "I know just the type of individual we'll need," she said, rat teeth snipping off each word.

  Poyndex shuddered. There was nothing new about using religious fanatics as assassins. But the image of a wild-eyed cultist waving a bloody knife was decidedly unsettling. He wiped the image away. As frightening as the idea was, he could not deny its merit.

  "Fine. We have an understanding, then," the Emperor said, winding things up. "Now… if you'll forgive me…"

  Baseeker leaped to her feet. "Certainly, Lord. And thank you so much for gracing me with these precious moments of your time."

  She dropped to her knees again and bounced her head on the floor three times. "Praise thy name, Lord. Praise, thy name…"

  And she was gone.

  The Emperor turned to Poyndex with a huge smile. "Amazing. They really do believe I'm a god."

  "No doubt about it, Your Majesty," Poyndex said. His survi
val instinct, however, kept him from smiling back. "Their beliefs may be childlike… but they certainly are sincere."

  The Eternal Emperor looked at the door Baseeker had just exited. "Out of the mouths of babes," he murmured.

  The mood broke and the Emperor slid a bottle of Scotch from his desk. He briskly poured a drink. And as briskly downed it.

  "Now. From the sublime to pure damned foolishness," the Emperor said. "I have a complaint from my chamberlain involving you."

  Poyndex lifted a brow. "Yes, Your Highness?"

  "Apparently those honors I asked you to process have yet to reach his desk. And he has an awards ceremony to prepare for. A ceremony, I might add, scheduled for less than two weeks from now."

  "I am so very sorry, sir," Poyndex said at his most humble. "It's my fault. And I have no excuses for it."

  "Damned straight," the Eternal Emperor snorted. "For crying out loud, Poyndex, I know and you know these things are meaningless. But medals and honors are good public relations. Especially in these times."

  "Yes, Your Highness. I'm sorry, Your Highness. I'll get on it right away."

  "Never mind," the Emperor said. "Send the list to me. I'll deal with it." He shook his head. "Might as well. It seems like I have to do everything else myself."

  "Yes, sir."

  The Emperor drank more Scotch, his irritation waning. "I suppose you do have your hands full at the moment," he said.

  "It's still no excuse, sir. But thank you."

  "Don't thank me yet," the Emperor said. "Because I have another rather large item for your plate."

  "Yes, sir."

  "I've been thinking about our problem with Sten. He's been doing us a great deal of damage. But only because he's the one with the momentum. And while we're still coming up to speed, he can continue to hit us at will. Build up his image as a bold hero of the masses and all that rot."

  "He's bound to falter soon, sir," Poyndex said.

  "I don't like depending on luck or another being's mistakes," the Emperor said. "We need to grab the march now. Put so much pressure on him he won't know which way is up."

  "I don't mean to be negative, sir," Poyndex said, "but we've already stretched our forces to the limit. And then some. At this point, even our reserve units are strapped."

  "Strap them some more," the Emperor said.

  "But… if there should be some emergency, sir…"

  The Emperor's eyes blazed. "Clot that! Sten's been surprising us at every turn. Hitting us from every angle. My pet news stations, to AM2 depots, to the financial market."

  Poyndex puzzled. "The financial market? I assumed the economy was merely suffering because of the crisis. What could Sten have—"

  The Emperor gave him a scornful look. "Don't be a fool. That had all the marks of a guerrilla action. Nothing natural about it. No. It was Sten's doing. Or one of his people."

  "I see… Your Majesty," Poyndex said haltingly, not really seeing.

  The Emperor snorted, frustrated. "Now get this through that thick skull of yours, Poyndex. This is the emergency. And if we don't put this fire out soon, we're going to be in even deeper drakh. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Good. Now, take a look at this." The Emperor moved aside the bottle of Scotch and spread out a map of his empire. Poyndex bent over it, noting the many circles, crosses, and arrows the Emperor had scrawled.

  "These are the areas I think are the most vulnerable," the Emperor said, jabbing here and here and here. "The most likely places for him to hit next. We can cover if we move the Fifth Guard from Solfi… then shift the fleet at Bordbuch…"

  Poyndex watched in amazement as the Eternal Emperor jabbed at the map, rejiggering his forces.

  And every time his finger touched paper, hundreds of ships and thousands of soldiers were hurled across the stars.

  In pursuit of a single man.

  Much later, secure in his own small kingdom in Arundel Castle, Poyndex reflected on the state of the Empire.

  He touched a sensor at his desk and the mural on the far wall of the command center shattered, and was replaced by an electronic version of the map the Emperor had shown him: the situation board. Crisis lights winking.

  Poyndex scanned the bad news. Food riots. Rolling blackouts. Wildcat strikes. His eyes moved on. Money markets in disarray. Commodities seesawing. Panicked corporate reports. Appeal after appeal for more AM2.

  The bad news wasn't limited to the civilian sector. Sten's attacks against the Empire were indicated all over the board. As were the declarations of war or independence from many of the Emperor's former allies.

  Dead agents, blown missions, and other intelligence failures were also added to the Empire's burden.

  A normal being might have despaired. Poyndex was far from normal. In each failure he saw opportunity. In each disaster, a hidden treasure trove.

  Poyndex had learned much from the Eternal Emperor in a very short time. Success required perspective… and patience.

  In this case the long view was Poyndex's—not the Emperor's.

  As his black-uniformed aides hustled about the enormous room, Poyndex once again weighed the odds. And once again he came to the conclusion that the Emperor was wrong. He was taking the threat of Sten far too seriously.

  In fact, it was Poyndex's view that Sten was actually being propped up by the Emperor's attention. His antics would be seen as just that if he was officially ignored. But the more the Emperor ranted and raved and flung about ships and troops, the more attractive a figure Sten became to the Emperor's enemies.

  All data suggested that the dice were loaded against Sten. His forces were puny and his resources slim, when compared to the juggernaut that was the Empire.

  Sten could not afford one mistake. The Emperor could afford many.

  For some reason the Emperor couldn't see this. He was completely obsessed with Sten. Very little else was getting his attention.

  A large blind spot.

  A small smile began to grow on Poyndex's lips. He couldn't help feeling clever for encouraging the Emperor's obsession. And slipping around that blind spot.

  He'd warned the Emperor of this and that. But only to protect himself—if things went wrong. Meanwhile, he'd successfully isolated the Emperor from the outside world, moving in his own people.

  The Gurkhas were the last of the old guard to go.

  Now, the Emperor was totally dependent on him. It was Poyndex who had chosen Zoran's successor. Poyndex who controlled all people permitted in the Emperor's presence. And it was Poyndex who encouraged the Emperor in his madness whenever possible.

  As a matter of fact, he had become so indispensable to the Emperor that he'd deliberately started making a few mistakes. Such as the mishandling of the honors-banquet nonsense.

  The Emperor might be mad. But he was certainly no fool. He knew as well as Poyndex that there was nothing so dangerous as an indispensable man.

  So Poyndex had to foul up once in a while. Just enough so the Emperor wouldn't resent him.

  He looked up at the situation board. Not at the bad news. But at the sheer expanse of the Empire.

  An Empire that in some ways bent to his will.

  Not the Emperor's.

  And as each day passed—and the Emperor deteriorated—Poyndex's influence grew.

  He did not make the mistake of ever seeing himself as Emperor. At least not very often.

  During the time of the privy council, Poyndex had viewed firsthand what happened to the Empire when there was no figurehead to give it form.

  No. The Emperor was a necessity. At least his presence was. His legend.

  There was only one large flaw. Poyndex would eventually grow old.

  Weaken.

  And die.

  But the Emperor was immortal.

  What if Poyndex could some how learn that secret?

  What if he could live… forever?

  Poyndex brushed the sensor and the situation board became a mural again.


  There were more possibilities here than even Poyndex could ever dream of.

  And Poyndex was a practiced dreamer.

  Chapter Sixteen

  "I DON'T KNOW how they discovered your whereabouts," Sr. Ecu said. His holo image was shadowed on the edges from the strength of the scrambler.

  "The point is, they're on their way to the Lupus Cluster right now. A 260-being delegation. Headed by the three top leaders of the Zaginows."

  "Speaking as one trained diplomat to another," Sten said, "this is not what I call clottin' wonderful. I'm going to have to move our base of operations. Fast."

  "I think it would be a mistake not to meet with them," Sr. Ecu said, his tail agitating the Seilichi atmosphere. The flick sent him drifting across the chamber.

  "I know it's dangerous to assume innocent intent." Another flick, and Sr. Ecu's body steadied. "However… if the Zaginows do join with us… it will be a major blow against the Emperor. Think of it. An entire region—representing hundreds of clusters—defecting to our side. The propaganda value would easily equal any military venture you might be considering."

  Sten tapped a nervous foot against the cold, stone floor of the Bhor com room. "I know. I know. But I still can't get past the frightening little detail that somehow the Zaginows not only connected us, but also figured out where I'm holed up."

  "I was as startled as you," Sr. Ecu said, "when they arrived at my front door, demanding to meet with you. My first assumption was there had been a leak. The second was the Manabi were doomed. I had visions of an Imperial planetbuster in our immediate future.

  "But after speaking with them, running all the progs through my techs, combined with my personal knowledge of the Zaginows—I see very little possibility of a trap."

  "It's the little possibility that scares me," Sten said. "Also a largish 'howcome'… In other words, if they want to sign on with the revolution… how come they didn't do so with you? Why is it so important they have a face-to-face with me?"

  "Because the Zaginows are not entirely convinced," Sr. Ecu said. "They're only sure we share the same enemy. They're not sure we have the means to do something about said enemy."