Empires end, p.6
Empire's End, page 6
Now, Haines thought, let us hope these ‘nappers didn’t want to disturb my neighbors’ sleep with nasty old overhead aircraft, because we’re screwed if there’s top cover.
Inside, she heard grunts as Sam’l woke, crashed to his feet, and evidently walked straight into a side table.
“What the hell…”
He was no Sten, no cop, no soldier, took half an hour to grunt awake enough to be able to hit the ground with his hat, and Haines loved him for all of those reasons…and a lot of others. The nightwind caught the houseboat and sent it spinning over the forest. Haines heard crashes from inside as paintings came off the wall and plates shattered. She went inside, one hand steadying against a wall as the boat started drunken sashays through the air.
“A kidnap team,” she announced, even though in his present stupor it would probably take Sam’l several minutes to define kidnap. “All of them in uniform. Imperial thugs.”
Sam’l, astonishingly, was suddenly quite alert.
“Oh,” he said. Then nodded.
“Well, I suppose it had to happen,” he said. “Although I wish we could think of something more…active to do than just running.”
“First we run,” Haines reminded him. “Then we hide. We’ll have all the time in the world to figure out paybacks.”
She crossed to a chest, opened it, and took out two personal “chutes”—steady-drain McLean packs with harness that would drop an average-weight human safely from any distance up to two kilometers before the batteries went dry.
When the houseboat hit about four klicks altitude, they’d go out the door and free-fall half the distance to the ground, targets too tiny—she hoped—to be picked up by Imperial sensors. Sam’l was the one who’d taught her that sport.
Time enough for paybacks. Yes. With luck there would be, she thought, but didn’t say it aloud as she helped Sam’l into his rig.
* * * *
Even now, even in the darkest part of the night, the tower still was a muted rainbow at the end of the gorge.
Inside, Marr and Senn slept uneasily, curled around each other. They looked almost the same age as they had been years earlier, when they were the Imperial caterers and Sten a young captain, in charge of the Emperor’s Gurkha bodyguard. Perhaps their fur had darkened slightly, to a deeper gold. But nothing else had changed. The two Milchen, financially stable in their retirement, still loved beauty and love itself. The lovers were not only Sten’s friends, although it had been years since they had seen him, but they had thrown the Grand Party after which Haines and Sten had become lovers.
Marr suddenly woke. Sat up. Senn whistled questioningly, huge eyes blinking.
“It was but a dream.”
“No. A gravcar. Coming up the valley.”
“I see nothing. You were just dreaming.”
“No. There. Look. It’s coming without lights.”
“Oh dear. I feel those fingers touching my soul. Cold. Cold. At night, without lights. If it stops, we do not answer.”
Marr didn’t respond.
“I said, we do not answer. In these times, with the Emperor not as he was, only a fool goes to the door after midnight. Those who move by night are not friends.”
Silence. The gravcar had stopped outside.
“The cold is stronger. Don’t you feel it?”
“I do.”
“The bell. Who is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t turn on the lights. Maybe they will go away.”
Marr’s slender hand moved through the air, and, outside, four single beams marked the parking area.
“You fool,” Senn snapped. “Now they know. Who are they?”
Marr peered out. ‘Two. They are human. One is a man. The other a woman. I don’t know the man…the woman looks familiar.”
“Yes. She does. Marr. She is carrying a gun. Turn out the light.”
“I know her,” Marr announced. “She is that policeperson. She called me on some vague pretense just days ago. I wondered.”
“Which police…oh. Haines.”
“Yes. The one who loved Sten.”
“Then she is a fugitive. The Emperor must want to question anyone who knew him. And she must know something, or else she would not flee.”
“Senn. Think. Would you not run from that horrid Poyndex? The one who personally murdered Mahoney?”
“Turn out the lights. Come back to bed. We do not play human politics.
“See? Now they are turning away. Someone else will take them in.”
Marr did not answer. He thought he could hear the crunch of footsteps outside and below, in the parking area.
“I once was told,” he said slowly, “by a human, that if he was ever given the choice of betraying a friend or betraying his country, he hoped to be courageous enough to be a traitor.”
The two leaned close to each other, their antennae twining. Senn pulled back.
“All right,” he said. “But don’t try to talk to me about loyalty and all those other complicated human emotions. You just want to have houseguests to cook for again.” His hand moved in a semicircle. And suddenly the tower of light glowed in full life, welcoming Haines and Sam’l.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ONCE AGAIN THE Eternal Emperor’s chambers were jammed, the air freshers working overtime as he barked orders to the flowing stream of staff members.
“Avri.”
“Yes, Your Highness?”
“What’s the status on the K-B-N-S-O operation?”
“Not good, sir. I’ve got our best spin doctors working on it. But nobody’s buying our angle.”
“Which is?”
“That it was a quote tragic accident end quote triggered by Sten’s attack on the station. That we were merely trying to quote protect the innocent civilians end quote.”
“Change ‘innocent civilians’ to attempting to ‘limit collateral damage.’”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Then I want you to set a backfire.”
“Like what, sir?”
“Easy. The airwaves belong to the Empire. Which means me. Inform them I’ll yank their licenses to lie if they don’t start telling more of mine.”
“Yessir…”
“You sound doubtful. What else is bothering them?”
“They’re scared. Afraid Sten will raid them next.”
“No problem. Anders.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Hustle up some spare ships and troopies. I want all the major Imperial broadcasters ringed. I want a net a flea couldn’t get through, okay?”
“Yessir. But, we don’t have that many to spare. What with the budget cutbacks. And the heavy commitments to help stabilize our weaker allies. Then there’s the garrison forces. We’ve got them spread all over—”
“ Find them, Anders. Just find them.”
“Yessir.”
“One other thing.”
“Sir?”
“I’m not forgetting your fine Italian hand in this station foul-up.”
“No sir. I take full responsibility, sir.”
“Shut up, Anders. And while you’re doing my bidding, I want you to think about a nice post I can send you to after this whole thing is over. An island, someplace. A cold island. And make it small, while you’re at it. No more than a kilometer in any direction. Now, get busy.”
“Uh…Yes, Your Majesty!”
“Walsh.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“What’s the status on the AM2 tax bill?”
“I’m not sure we have enough votes to carry Parliament, sir.”
“What’s the hangup?”
“The Back Benchers are arguing that the tax increase goes against your promise.”
“Big deal. They break promises all the time. Why can’t I? It goes with the territory. Which is politics. Which is nothing more than lies and damned lies.”
“Yessir. But they don’t feel the same now they’ve given up their independence. We offered AM2 at bargain-basement prices if they became Dominions of the Empire.”
“Sure, I remember. I also remember that I’m the boy with the hand on the AM2 nozzle. I’m the sole supplier. Ergo, I get to set the price.”
“Yessir. I know that, sir. It’s the other members of Parliament. They say they’ve all got deficits that are choking them.”
“Well, tell them they’re going to have to join the club. Because that’s why I’ve got to have my tax increase. My treasury is tapped out. Nary a bone in the cupboard. I can’t believe those people. Clot, I’m the one with the whole burden. Without me, they’ve got zip. I figured six years of being under the thumb of the privy council would have proven that.”
“True, Your Highness. But I’ve heard some whispers in the halls that maybe things weren’t so bad, uh, when you, uh, were gone, and the privy council was running things.”
“Don’t worry about whispers in the hall…Kenna?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“I want you to help Walsh on this.”
“Delighted, sir. As always.”
“I want Dusable behind me when it comes to a vote. I want a big push. And I want a bigger vote margin. Unanimous would be nice, but I’ll settle for 99 percent.”
“I’m not sure that’s possible, sir.”
“Dusable is one fat and sassy system right now, is it not?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“I’ve made you guys a principal AM2 depot. Which means you get to skim all you like.”
“I protest, Your Majesty. The good citizens of Dusable—”
“Knock it off, Kenna. If you weren’t stealing I’d be suspicious. Point is, I’ve been giving you all the goodies. Made you one of the top jewels in my crown. Now it’s time to pay the piper. And get out the vote.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
“That’s not good enough. Theft is required. And arm breaking. I want this Parliament brought into line. At least until it recesses. I can always pack it with more of our own people afterward.”
“Consider it done, Your Highness.”
“Bleick.”
“Yessir.”
“You’re working with Poyndex on that high priestess character, aren’t you? What was her name?”
“Zoran, sir. High priestess of the Cult of the Emperor.”
“That’s the fruitcake I mean.”
“Yessir. I have that assignment.”
“What’s going on? I was expecting a few godheads in my pocket by now. I badly need to boost my image with the ignorant masses. Damn, but the poor can be hard on a ruler. We’ve got riots all over the place. Bad for business.
“A few temples built in my honor could restore faith in the economy, and seriously trim this depression.”
“To be frank, sir…I haven’t had much luck with the woman. She’s either not available, or, when she is, she talks in circles and giggles a lot. I think she’s crazy.”
“Like a fox, Bleick. She’s a nut, for sure. But she’s smarter than most people in this room. Tell her I’m getting tired of pouring credits into her organization. With no return.”
“I spelled that out for her, sir. In absolute no-nonsense terms.”
“Hmmm. I smell a skunk. Fine. Forget her. Exile her or something. Tell her it’s time for her to reflect on the Spheres. Tell Poyndex to have her sent to her proper reward. Something quick, and not painful. Then suborn her second-in-command.
“If that doesn’t work, keep going down the list until you find somebody with big eyes and a small brain. Talk to Poyndex. He’ll know what I mean.”
The door hissed open. Poyndex entered—with the pinched bad-news look on his face again.
The Eternal Emperor made immediate motions for his staff to make themselves scarce. They did.
“Sit.”
Poyndex obeyed, sitting stiff in his seat, almost at attention. The Emperor pulled a bottle of Scotch from his desk. The ancient Earth whisky had taken him years to reinvent. He poured a glass and braced himself with a long swallow. The Emperor pointedly didn’t offer Poyndex any.
“Okay. What’s happening this time?”
“It’s Sten, sir.”
“I figured that. What about him?”
Poyndex leaned forward across the desk. The man was honestly bewildered. “Sir. My people have been over every connection you gave us a hundred times. And we’ve come up with many more. But, it’s no dice, sir. No one, but no one, knows him, sir. Except in passing. We’ve brainscanned people. Had them worked over by experts. But as near as I can tell…Sten doesn’t have a friend in the Empire.”
The Emperor wooshed, then took another heavy slug of his drink. Poyndex noted that his once-clear features were getting puffy and there was a small red web of a blemish beside his nose.
“That doesn’t scan,” the Emperor said. “Even the lowest being in the Empire has at least one friend. Even the misguided attract their own. Or, I should say, especially the misguided.”
Poyndex turned his hands palms up. “It’s true, just the same, sir. The real trouble is, with all the records on Sten and Kilgour wiped…we don’t have much to go on.”
“Except my memory.”
“Which is excellent, sir. The few breaks we’ve had have all come from you.”
The Emperor stared at Poyndex, reading his face. No. The man wasn’t catering to his ego. He meant it.
The Emperor wondered for a moment if maybe he was beginning to lean on Poyndex more than was healthy.
Beings could get very dangerous ideas…if one depended on them too much. Only Poyndex, for example, knew of the bomb that had once been planted in his gut. A bomb wired to that…that thing. That great ship, out there beyond the Alva Sector, through the discontinuity. The great ship that controlled him.
The Emperor’s mind shuddered at the thought of the ship with the white room and the disembodied voice that spoke to him.
He shivered. Took another drink. Then he remembered. Correction: former controller. It was Poyndex who’d set up the special surgical team that had removed the bomb from his body and cut his link with the controller.
Another drink. Yesss. Much better now. He was the last Eternal Emperor. Until the Empire’s end…
Which would be?
Never.
He pulled himself together. “There’s only one thing to be done, then,” he said. “Somehow, I have to make more time. Get an interrogation team on standby. Every spare second I have, I’ll devote to my memories of Sten. Any detail the team digs up from me, you can get cracking on immediately.”
Poyndex hesitated. “Are you sure that’s wise, sir?”
The Emperor frowned. “I know it’s not wise. I’ve already fallen into the jimmycarter, for crying out loud. Micromanaging every detail in my empire. Next thing you know, I’ll be going over the damned newyear’s greeting list with Bleick. But…dammit…what choice do I have?”
“Sten is just one being, Your Majesty,” Poyndex said. “Let us deal with him.”
“I can’t take that chance. Sten is the symbol of everything that’s gone wrong. Citizens have no faith. They won’t follow orders. They question my every pronouncement. When I’m the only one who really cares about them. Who else can take the long view? I mean the really long view. I see things not in years, but generations.” The Emperor fell silent a moment. “No. This is something I have to do,” he finally said. “Damn his eyes!”
And the Eternal Emperor drained the glass.
CHAPTER EIGHT
HOME.
It was strewn across a thousand thousand kilometers of space, a slowly whirling sargasso of industrial junk.
Vulcan.
Sten stared at the ruins through his suit’s faceplate. The sound of his breathing seemed loud.
This was the hellworld where Sten had been born, an artificial factory planet built and run as a violent, dangerous industrial plant by The Company. His parents, Migrant/Unskilled laborers, and his brothers and sisters had died here, killed by an executive’s callous decision about secrecy. The boy that was Sten exploded into futile rebellion. He was caught, and sentenced to Exotic Section, an experimental area where the workers were assured of a slow, painful death. But Sten survived. Survived, learned to fight, and—his fingers touched the deathneedle sheathed in his arm—“built” his knife from alien crystal.
He had escaped Exotic Section, and become a Delinq, living in the secret ducts and deserted storehouses of the planet, trying to stay one theft ahead of The Company’s Sociopatrolmen and brainburn. He had met Bet here, his first real love. And here he had been saved from death by Ian Mahoney, coldcocked after a blown raid and drafted into the Imperial Guard.
Mahoney had again “volunteered” him—this time from infantry assault training into Mahoney’s own covert force: Mantis—where he learned the dark alleys of intelligence and the darker skills of secret violence. How to kill any being without leaving a mark. Or, more importantly, how to seduce or corrupt them into your service, without them ever realizing they’d been used.
And then Mahoney had sent him back to Vulcan with Kilgour and the rest of his Mantis Team. Mission: destroy the man who killed Sten’s family.
His first great success. In the course of that destruction, Sten, three ETs and three humans, including Ida the Gypsy, had created and led a planetwide revolution.
That minirising brought in the Imperial Guard, and Sten’s team came out, Sten himself on a life-support system.
He had never found out what happened afterward to Vulcan. And he had never wanted to know. He assumed that new management had come in Vulcan as an only slightly less lethal factory.
Evidently not, he thought, looking at the shambles in front of him. Or, anyway, not for very long. Even if it was needed for defense during the Tahn war, the privy-council era would have made Vulcan unprofitable—AM2 had simply become too rare and expensive to waste running a heavy-industry vacuum-based plant.
Vulcan had been abandoned, looted, and gutted. At its height it resembled a junkyard anyway—factories, quarters, and warehouses had been built, used, and discarded without being wrecked out.
