by Chris Bunch
He would have a long time to do it.
The second reason was pity. For Imbrociano. He could not bear to think how hurt she would be that he had lied to her. It was a terrible emotion for a person to be confronted with at the moment of his death. Even worse than the betrayal itself.
He trusted her.
But he couldn't take the chance.
Trust no one, an old king had once advised another. Not even me, your friend… Especially me!
Ah, well. The decision had been difficult. But deadly necessity had won the hand. But he knew he would always mourn Imbrociano. Just as he would mourn others. It was a king's burden. One he would have to bear.
He moved his finger to the depression in the case. When he touched it, the bomb would destroy the ship. Everyone would die. Instantly. Except for…
… Him?
He was suddenly sweat-soaked. His heart bruising his ribs with its hammering.
What if Imbrociano was right?
About what?
My soul?
Yes… Your soul. Goddamned y—
Kea shuddered in a long breath. Blew it out. Drew another. He closed his eyes. And thought of the gentle curtain of fire billowing in the cosmic winds. He was floating through it now. Saw the particles leaping about as if they were alive.
Now? Should he do it now?
No.
One more moment.
One more thought.
Kea sucked in stale cabin air. It tasted sweet.
I will be the forever king, he thought.
The Eternal Emperor.
He pressed the switch.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
N-Space—Year One
THE MAN SAT quietly in his seat, watching the color/noncolor through what appeared to be the ship's port. He was dark and muscular with startling blue eyes. He wore a white form-fitting tunic and soft white slippers. He'd been watching dazzling lights for many… days… weeks… months? The terms made only vague sense.
He never tired of the view, even though it hurt his eyes. It was always the same. But different. Shifting shapes and patterns. Bursting bits of color. It had always been so soothing. But not today. It made him tense. Yearning. The cabin's womblike coziness felt smothering.
A thought came to him. He peered through the port. The Voice said it was the place where two universes touched. A gateway. Yes, he knew that. But, what was it called? An answer crawled into his brain:… Discontinuity.
Fazlur's Discontinuity.
He snapped up. Felt the hair on his arms prickle up. Where did that come from? The Voice? No. It came from…
Within!
The man rose and padded to the far end of the cabin. There was a mirror on that wall. He peered into it. Saw the face. For the first time, it seemed… familiar. As if it didn't belong to… someone else? Yes. That was it. He rusked a hand across the cheek. Again… the sensation was so… deeply… familiar. He looked into the eyes. Saw the sardonic creases at the edges. The blue that could turn so quickly gray and cold. He laughed. Heard the echo of that laugh collide around the room.
God. The sound of it was so wonderful.
He touched the surface of the mirror, trembling fingers outlining the reflection.
He nearly wept to find himself there.
Then he pulled himself together. He stood back from the mirror. Put his hands on his hips… posing for his own benefit. He looked long and hard at the image of himself. Measuring for any sign of weakness. Finding none. He nodded. Satisfied.
A thought jumped up: The forever king.
He frowned. What was the rest? Back there, when…
He remembered.
"I am the Emperor," he said aloud.
He grinned at his image in the mirror.
"The Eternal Emperor."
Book Four
King In Danger
Chapter Twenty-Nine
BLURRY. VERY BLURRY. Worse… then better as the rangefinder autoadjusted.
A rolling mountain meadow. A series of hillocks around it. The hillocks pocked with cave mouths. Adjustment, Sten's mind told him. You are in the middle of a city. The meadow's turf was artificial. As were the hillocks. The cave mouths were doorways leading down into huge caverns.
Near the end of the meadow, the ruins of what had been a low building with arched openings. Deliberately smashed when a huge Imperial battleship smashed in for a landing atop it
In front of the building, a platform.
Correction. A scaffold.
Standing on it, a man dressed in black and half-hooded. Holding a pistol.
In front of him, two Imperial soldiers in battledress. Between them, held firmly, a large golden-furred being.
Blur-around: the "meadow" packed with other golden ones. Between them and the scaffold, more Imperial troops in the mottled-brown combat uniform of the Guards. Their weapons were leveled at the crowd.
A furred out-of-focus head blurred across his vision.
Movement, and Sten was looking again at the scaffold.
Sounds: drumroll.
Sounds: earshattering whistles.
"Th' lad thae's aboot't' gie hieself lopped is Sr. Tangeri," Alex's voice explained. "F y' ken th' Cal'gata hae a whistlin't frae speech, y' perhaps sense thae dinnae be fond ae th' notion thae leader's aboot f'r th' high jump. We're i' th' place th' Cal'gata call their Gatherhome. I's th' equivalent ae Parliament Or was, at any rate."
A nailer voice boomed and echoed from the battleship.
"Y' noo c'n make oot th' words. Th' lad wi' th' pickup hae antique gear. But th' Cal'gata're being tol' thae this i' th' penalty frae high treason, an' thae'll be more penalties't' follow."
The echoes stopped, and Tangeri was turned to face the crowd. Instantly the executioner's hand came up, and the pistol fired. The front of Tangeri's skull exploded, and the body slumped.
The soldiers heaved the corpse forward, off the scaffold.
"An' noo," Kilgour's voice went on, 'i' gie's interestin'."
Whistles louder, louder, damped by the pickup's controls. Blackness.
"Th' lad wearin' th' 'corder's movin't closer."
Blur motion. Running. Moving with the crowd. Guns firing. Screams. Human screams. Running forward. A squealing Tangeri, fur blood-soaked, waving an Imperial willygun.
Perspective jolting. Moving over something. Something soft. A body. A torn-apart Imperial soldier.
Dragonroar.
Blackness.
"Th' battlewagon opened up wi' a chaingun."
Vision. The sky. A dot an object a diving hawk explosion SOUNDBLANK… groundjar… blackness.
"Ev'dently," Kilgour's voice explained, "thae wae a wee Cal'gata who got airborne wi' some sort ae spitkit, an' the' Emp's destroyer screen didnae stop him. An' he calc'lated a fair trade wae a battleship frae his life.
"Ah reck th' lad wae right."
Vision. Flames gouting from the Imperial battleship, from a great hole just behind the bridge.
Blurmotion again. Running. More shots. Then sky, and Sten gasped as pain racked him. Blackblank.
He could see. Somebody else could see.
Now he was a long way away from Gatherhome. It was far below him. The battleship was walled in flames, and the square appeared deserted. A mill of Imperial destroyers filled the air above the wreckage. Suddenly one destroyer was a ball of greasy flame, and again the pickup blanked.
Sten lifted the livie helmet away.
"What happened to the first Cal'gata? The one who started recording?"
A grim-faced Alex shrugged.
"Thae, Ah dinnae know. Killed, Ah reck. Else why w'd another pick up th' gear? But frae y'r info, th' battlewagon wae th' Odessa, an' the Imperials lost twa battalions ae th' Second Guards. Th' rumble Ah heard frae th' smuggler wi' Wild who brought th' tape wae that near ten thousan' Cal'gata went doon ae well. Needless't'say, th' Offic'l Emp News dinnae hae ought ae th' matter."
"So that's what they're calling a drum patrol," Cind snarled. "I guess murderers
like the Guard look hard for some kind of label that doesn't say what they're really doing."
"The Guard may be bad, following orders like they are. What's worse," Otho rumbled, "is that's what the Emperor is calling justice."
Sten got up, walked to a screen, and stared out, thinking. The Victory and her escorts hung in deep interstellar space, far from the haunts of man.
"So I'm dead," he mused aloud, "but the rebellion continues."
"Like a summer fire in an ice oasis, one that's been knocked down but not extinguished and can flare up at any time," Otho confirmed. "Burning down here, flickering up there. Here they'll chance a battle, there they'll peg an Imperial sentry at his post with a rock."
"An'," Alex added, "th' Cal'gata, ae y' saw, are holdin' firm. As are th' Zaginows. Eventually, th' Emp'll hae th' forces't' move in an' level 'em. But nae frae ae least three, four E-years is m' prog.
"While thae's some ae y'r allies thae hae sued frae peace, thae's others that hae gone oot't' th' barricades or are just practicin' noncoop'ration frae reasons ae their own.
"Plus thae's purges i' Prime, i' the Guard, across th' armed forces, i' th' rubberstamp Parliament, e'en.
"Th' Emp hae biggish problems, puir lad."
The Eternal Emperor did. He may have killed Sten, but the price had been far greater than he'd calculated. The obliteration of the peaceful Manabi, a race respected and admired if only as an ideal, sent a low boil of anger through civilization.
None of the propaganda played, all of which centered around the story that Sten had set a trap for the Eternal Emperor, who had barely escaped after killing the rebel leader in hand-to-hand combat.
Sten was dead, the Emperor lived, was the comeback. Peddle y'r p'raties i' another town.
And it was clear to many beings that the Emperor's offer of a truce and powersharing was exactly what it had been—bait for the Emperor's own trap.
Rebellion roared, died down, rose again, flickered on, stretching the already-strained forces and assets of the Empire.
Sten had wasted no time mourning the Manabi, nor cursing himself for not allowing that final battle to be fought, damn the consequences. He couldn't. He had been betrayed. What of it? The war had just begun.
He didn't realize he'd spoken aloud, until he heard Otho's ramble of approval. He turned.
"It does," Otho said. "Now is the time for you to reveal yourself. You did not die. Now is the time for your forces to rally and strike again."
Both Alex and Cind were shaking their heads. Alex started to say something, then deferred to Cind.
"If we do," she asked, "and we get the battlefleets to reassemble, those that haven't been destroyed by the Imperial forces or fled into unknown parts of the universe, what's to say we won't end up where we were? Facing another Asculum, where everybody dies and nobody wins?
"That's the way my ancestors the Jann used to fight. And there's great tales and ballads of how we stood to the last man or woman.
"Very impressive," she said, her voice oozing sarcasm, "and inspirational for young heroes. But it didn't play very well for me later, when I grew up, and also when I found out that not only did we lose those battles—but pretty often the war, as well.
"Like Alex might say, clot that for a lark."
Kilgour nodded.
"Th' lass put i' better'n Ah c'd. Ah'll but mention Culloden, which'll gie wee Otho some'at't' look up a'ter th' meet."
Sten nodded agreement with Alex and Cind, remembering something his first drill sergeant, a combat veteran named Lanzotta, had told the assembled formation of recruits on their first day of training:
"Some general or other said a soldier's job is not to fight, but to die. If any of you fungus scrapings live to graduate, you'll be ready to help the soldier on the other side die for his country… We build killers, not losers …"
"Rykor," Sten said. "Logic check."
The psychologist waved a flipper from her tank. She mourned the Manabi, especially Sr. Ecu, more than any of the others. Or perhaps, she thought, trying to lift herself from the grief that sent a constant well of tears down her leathery cheeks, these others have lost more friends and loved ones, being experienced soldiers, than I have.
All these years, all these decades, she thought on. Doing the Emperor's frequently bloody work, and because there was seldom a body in front of me—flashremembering a small-time criminal's body flopping into death on the brainscan—I thought I knew how to deal with loss.
Learn from this, Rykor. Learn that all that you preach may be logical and practical. But the next patient who seems unable to accept the truth of your comforting or logic—don't think them to be thick or obstinate.
"Go ahead, Sten," she said, forcing attention.
"If I suddenly rise from the dead, I assume I could attract a fair number of allies—old ones, new ones—to my flag. Ignore that. Now, if I stay dead, will the Emperor's persecution of my ex-friends be any worse—will any more beings die—than if I rolled away the stone?"
Rykor thought hard.
"No," she said finally. "Your logic is acceptable. Persecution… irrational revenge such as the Emperor is practicing right now… is terrible. But open war kills far more, including the innocent."
"As I thought," Sten said.
"Okay, troops. Here's the plan," he said. "We tried the wide-open frontal-charge approach, and it didn't work real well. Maybe it's my fault—I never was the kind of warrior who liked the noonday sun. Reflections off the armor are a pain in the butt, if nothing else."
Sten was surprised at his mild joke. All right. He was re-learning the harsh lesson of war—mourn for your casualties overlong and you will certainly join them.
"This time, we'll do it right. In the dark, in the fog, from behind with a stiletto. And I think staying dead will be part of that.
"No more battles unless we have to, people. Now we're going after the Emperor. And this time we'll take him or we'll kill him. Any way we can."
He looked around. Rykor was silent. Otho frowned, then grudged agreement. Cind and Alex nodded, as did Captain Freston.
"Ah'm glad't'hear thae, lad. Long live Mantis an' thae," Alex said. "F fits right in wi' m' own plans. Ah'd like permission't' run a wee solo shot ae m' own. Ah wan' Poyndex."
Alex explained. He had been analyzing these new purges. Some of them were public or secret allies of Sten. Others had obviously offended the Eternal Emperor. But other deaths or imprisonment had no obvious explanation.
"Ah tried runnin' th' basic ineptness ae any tyrant," Alex continued. "But th' computer upchucked on m' thinkin't an' sayit try again, goon."
He did. An answer was Poyndex. The man was clever, Kilgour conceded. Again, he had first thought that Poyndex was adding to the purge list to take care of his own enemies—the head of a secret police normally did that every time his ruler needed some heads rolled. But Poyndex was far brighter than that—he had no problems disposing of his enemies as he encountered them. The Emperor had given him a great deal of authority—and the sanction to kill his own snakes without need to use the Emperor as a cover.
The eventual explanation was simpler. Alex believed that Poyndex was trying to make himself the one indispensable man.
"Wi'oot," Alex added, "gie'in th' Emp thoughts thae Poyndex harbors gran' ambitions ae th' throne f'r himself, although thae'll come, thae'll come."
The Gurkhas had been discharged, Alex learned. At one time he thought it was out of Imperial Irk because a platoon or so of them had volunteered to serve under Sten, before he declared the rebellion. Then he thought they'd been removed to allow Poyndex's own creation, Internal Security, to move in. That was part of the explanation, which also accounted for Poyndex's replacement of Mercury Corps and Mantis Section with IS.
But there was more to Poyndex's maneuvering than just that, Alex believed. Poyndex intended to be the only conduit the Emperor had to anyone—his officers, his military, his Parliament, his people.
"A course, th' mon's dinkydow," Alex sai
d. "Afore he gies't' be th' only channel't' th' Emperor on his throne, th' Emp'll roll his wee head. Consider some lads ae th' past. Bismarck. Yezov. Himmler. Kissinger. Jhones.
"Th' only one gray em'nence whae dinnae fall i' Rich'lieu. Poyndex i' a cap'ble lad, but he's noo a Rich'lieu."
But all that would lie in the future. At present, he'd been fairly effective in isolating the Eternal Emperor. Now, considering that Poyndex was already a turncoat, having headed Mercury Corps during the Interregnum and then lifted to the privy council by the conspirators before he double-crossed them to the Emperor…
"Ah hae plans," Alex finished, "t' mess wi' th' heads ae both Poyndex an' m' frien', th' Emp.
"F th' lines ae th' poem, They hunted till darkness coom on, but thae foun'/Nae a button, or feather, or mark/By which thae c'd tell that thae stood i' th' groun'/Whae th' Baker had met wi' th' Snark.' "
Sten eyed his friend. He knew that Alex would only get more specific if directly ordered to. Let Kilgour run his own mission.
"How'll you get to him?" Sten said. "As far as I know, the bastard barely budges out of Arundel, unless he's traveling with the Emperor."
Alex grinned.
"Ah hae made tight frien's wi' wee Marr an' Senn. E'en though they're retired, an' on th' oots wi' th' Emp, thae still hae been't' Arundel a bit. Th' new Arundel. Which they say, knowin' th' architect i' charge, was built exact like th' old one. An' they knew e'ery crook an' nanny ae th' braw stonepile long afore you wandered i' th' scene wi' y'r wee maps an' overlays."
Sten frowned. Arundel was the Emperor's citadel on Prime, styled like a triple-scale copy of the Earth castle, and with extensive works and gardens added around it and command bunkers and living quarters tunneled far underneath. It had been destroyed as one of the opening shots of the Tahn war, in a futile attempt to kill the Emperor. After the Emperor's return, it had been rebuilt.
