Death Match, page 80
part #3 of Sten Omnibus Series
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—flash-remembering 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 said. “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 I war, in a futile attempt to kill the Emperor. After the Emperor’s return, it had been rebuilt.
Then he got it, remembering that layered map and his own term as conscientious head of the Imperial bodyguard. And he remembered a certain prison break some months afterward, a prison break from Arundel’s dungeons.
Sten nodded.
“Take it away, Alex,” he said. “What kind of backup do you need?”
“Ah dinnae need but whae Ah hae. M’ snip thae Wild’s loaned me. M’ pilot. Ah’ll hae transport waitin’ ae Prime. Frae there, it’ll be one in, twa oot i’ th’ motto.”
Alex saluted, quite precisely, as if he and Sten were back in the service. Sten puzzled, stood, came to attention, and returned it. It was a very crisp, very military farewell.
And Kilgour was gone.
Alex was telling only some of the truth. He had considered that his scheme against Poyndex could succeed best as a solo run. But there was more to it than that.
The back of his neck still crawled.
He savored each day, each minute, because he had the feeling it could well be the last. He had put his house—his huge estates and castles on Edinburgh, assuming they were yet unburnt by the Emperor’s revenge—in order.
Now he was ready.
At least, he thought, i’ Ah’m answerin’t m’ weird, Ah’ll noo take wee Sten wi’ me.
He shut the mood and the thought off.
Dinnae be gloomin’t aroun’ ae i’ y’r some braw Norsemen. Back on Earth, aeons gone, we listen’t’t’ their keenin’ an’ slipped behind ’em an’ slit their weasands.
Go oot wi’ a smile, lad.
He was at the door to his own compartments. As he palmed the doorswitch and it slid open, he heard a giggle.
The first woman he saw was Marl.
Oh dear, he thought. Ah’d recked th’ lass was gie’in’ me th’ look back whae Ah wae trainin’ her, an’ th’Laird knows she’s a fine woman, haein’ strength i’ her bones an’ a brain i’ her skull. M’ type, exactly, an’ Ah did hae plans f r th’ twa ae us.
But wee Hotsco made her moves first, and Alex, kindhearted thug that he was, hadn’t quite known what, if anything, to say to Marl, assuming he’d been right about the mutual attraction, not egotistical, and so he’d sort of stayed clear of the Counter-Intelligence Division he’d setup.
Marl, he noted, as the door slid shut behind him, was looking especially gorgeous, in a sleek wrap of a skirt, a frothed blouse, and a wrap laid to one side.
As was Hotsco, who was wearing one of Alex’s shirts and a dab of perfume behind each ear.
Oh dear, he thought. This’ll noo be splendifer’us.
“Ladies,” he managed.
Marl and Hotsco looked at each other and laughed. Alex noted an empty bottle in an ice bucket nearby.
“I would guess,” Hotsco said, “that our hero there is wondering what he should be doing.”
“Ah’m nunkint,” Alex managed, “Ah’ll be needin’t a wee drink.”
Hotsco got up and got him a drink from the compartment’s bar. Stregg. Iced.
“Your friend Marl showed up a couple of hours ago. She’s been telling me stories about spying and that. And we’ve been…talking.”
Hotsco’s tongue came out…moistened her lips.
“It turns out…that we have some common interests,” she said. “Besides you, I mean.”
“Oh dear.”
It was Marl’s turn to laugh.
“With Sten dead,” she said, “there’s not much in the way of CI to do. The Bhor have everything well in hand. And since I’m Head of Section, I gave myself a talking-to. Told myself I was working too hard, and deserved a break.”
Alex shot back the stregg and, while his esophagus returned from hyperspace, poured himself another.
“Marl came here,” Hotsco said. “And I invited her in. She’s quite a woman, you know.”
“Ah ken,” Alex said, now with a note of suspicion.
“Her world has some…interesting social customs. Very interesting,” Hotsco purred. “Ones that both of us would be intrigued with.”
“Oh dear.”
“You’re repeating yourself, Alex.”
Marl and Hotsco were both trying—with little success—to keep straight faces.
“I thought that she might want to come with us to Prime,” Hotsco said. “It’s a very long passage, you know. She thought that was a wonderful idea. So I helped her pack. She’s ready to travel. Isn’t that exciting?”
Alex recovered.
“Aye. Aye. Y’re welcome’t’ go, wee Marl. Ah think y’re daft, thinkin’ goin’ int’ th’ belly ae th’ beast is a holiday, but y’re welcome.”
Marl walked up, and sedately kissed him on the cheek, in thanks.
“When’s the ETD?”
“Ah thought,” Alex said, “we’ll lift ae once. Hotsco’s ship’s fueled an’ ready.”
“Do we have to leave now?” Hotsco wondered. “I talked to Marr and Senn…and they’re sending in a wonderful farewell meal. Perhaps in the morning shift?”
“Why then?” Alex asked.
Hotsco walked to the huge, circular bed and sprawled across it. It had been originally built, it was surmised, for one of the Emperor’s favorite’s pleasure. She stretched and rolled, a smooth, lithe kitten.
“Why,” she purred, “there’s so much more here. A lot more than on my ship. Even if we put the bunks together in my cabin. Isn’t there, Marl?”
And all Alex could manage was yet another “Oh dear.”
Chapter Thirty
“DOWN WITH THE Emperor!” the woman screamed, her mouth ragged with hate.
“Death to the slayer of the Manabi!” another being shouted—its display organ swollen to bursting.
“Kill the great blasphemer!” a huge bear of a man bellowed. “Kill him.”
The three were among fifty agitators working the crowd to a fever pitch. Not that it needed it. Some twenty thousand angry beings were spread out in front of the Parliament building.
They were being held back by a wavering line of black-uniformed Internal Security storm troops.
Banners the size of small buildings jutted from the crowd of demonstrators. The largest one—in the center—was a huge blowup of the Emperor’s face. Splashed in blood-red paint across the face was the word MURDERER.
The crowd started chanting in unison: “Down with the Emperor! Down with the Emperor!”
Poyndex’s gravcar swooped over the crowd. He keyed his mike: “Move in the tracks,” he said, calm. “Then activate Alpha and Delta companies.”
“Yessir,” crackled the voice of his aide.
Poyndex watched with professional interest as nine enormous personnel carriers burst into view. They struck from three sides, boxing the crowd against the front of the Parliament building. Thick clouds of pepper gas spewed from their turrets. As the crowd screamed and pulled back in shock, hundreds of IS troops exploded out of hiding and attacked with clubs and stun rods.
A com shrilled at Poyndex’s belt. He glanced down. Irritated. Then he saw the winking red light. It was the Emperor.
Poyndex sighed. Even in the middle of a riot, the Emperor came first.
He patched into his aide and turned over command. Then swung the gravcar around and headed for Arundel.
Poyndex was definitely not looking forward to the meeting. With a full-blown riot in his own backyard, the Emperor was not likely to be the happiest of supreme rulers.
He braced for the worst.
“I’m sick of this nonsense,” the Eternal Emperor roared. “Don’t they know they’ve lost? Sten is dead. The head has been cut off. There is nothing left for them to do but bleed to death and die, dammit.”
He pointed an accusing finger at Poyndex. “You’re not keeping the pressure on. You’re just sitting back and resting on my laurels. My victory.”
“The rebels can’t persist much longer, Your Highness,” Poyndex said. “It’s only a matter of time.”
The Emperor’s fist slammed down on the desk. A mass of reports spilled to the floor. “Time? Don’t speak to me about time!
“My fleets are still spread out over two-thirds of the Empire. A day doesn’t go by that the Zaginows or the Honjo or the Bhor—or some such group of malcontents—find a new and interesting way to embarrass me.
“What’s more…this madness is costing me. I’m bleeding cash like a pricked pig. And every week these fools oppose me adds at least a year to our eventual recovery.”
The Emperor glared at Poyndex—as if he were the source of all his woes. “They think we’re weak, Poyndex,” he said. “Even after the Manabi, they don’t think we have the nerve to hold the course.”
“A few more victories, Your Majesty,” Poyndex said, “and the opposition will collapse. All the progs will bear this out.”
“Drakh on the progs,” the Emperor said. “My gut says different. My gut says this has taken on a life of its own. That bloody mess outside the Parliament building is just one example. No one would have ever dared it, before. And how the hell did they get onto the palace grounds, anyway?”
Poyndex grimaced. “We should have that mopped up shortly, Your Majesty,” he said. “And the ringleaders brought to justice.”
“Be damned to justice,” the Emperor said. “I’m the judge. I’m the jury.”
He grew silent a moment. Lost in thought. Then he looked up at Poyndex. He spoke. So soft Poyndex had to strain to hear.
“Why do they make me angry?” he said. “I can be kind. Generous. Ask any of my friends.” The Emperor looked around the empty room as if to seek them out. Unconsciously his hand moved forward—reaching for the com unit. Then stopped. There was no one to call. The hand snatched back.
Poyndex remained quite still. It was no time to draw notice. He watched emotion play across the Emperor’s features. Then they became stone.
He turned to Poyndex. “I must secure my godhead now,” he said. “Crush this thing once and for all.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Poyndex said, ready for orders.
“They shall go the way of the Manabi,” the Emperor said. “I want their home worlds destroyed. So when their ships and troops return, they find nothing but dust.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Poyndex said, already thinking of how to put the order into motion. Choosing the ships, the teams, and the trusted officers who would lead.
“It is not necessary for the explosions to go off simultaneously,” the Emperor said. “There should be just enough delay—a few hours at most—between each planetbuster for the reality to sink in.
“And by god, when I’m done, they’ll know what terror is. They’ll know my wrath. They want a better life? Fine. Let them look for it in the hereafter.”
He glared at Poyndex. “Why are you still here?” he snarled. “You heard what I want. Do it.”
“Immediately, Your Highness,” Poyndex said. He came quickly to his feet, saluted, and moved to the door.
“One more thing, Poyndex,” the Eternal Emperor said.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Next time there’s a riot… Clot the gas. Use guns. You hear me?”
“Absolutely, Your Highness,” Poyndex said.
The Emperor stared at the door as it hissed closed behind Poyndex. Perhaps he had given the man too much leeway. Lately he’d begun to notice all the Internal Security forces around him. Forces Poyndex commanded.
He realized that he had become isolated. Cut off from all opinion. And everyone about him was a stranger. This was not healthy.
Why had he allowed this to happen? The answer came to him, grudgingly. Fear. Of dying. Clot the duplicate who would replace him. It really wouldn’t be him, would it? Freedom from the judgment machine came with a curse. The curse of mortality.
So he needed Poyndex and his guards to keep him safe. He required a ring of security so tight, no one could possibly penetrate it.
Yes. But what if Poyndex turns on you? Like he turned on the privy council.
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—flash-remembering 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 said. “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 I war, in a futile attempt to kill the Emperor. After the Emperor’s return, it had been rebuilt.
Then he got it, remembering that layered map and his own term as conscientious head of the Imperial bodyguard. And he remembered a certain prison break some months afterward, a prison break from Arundel’s dungeons.
Sten nodded.
“Take it away, Alex,” he said. “What kind of backup do you need?”
“Ah dinnae need but whae Ah hae. M’ snip thae Wild’s loaned me. M’ pilot. Ah’ll hae transport waitin’ ae Prime. Frae there, it’ll be one in, twa oot i’ th’ motto.”
Alex saluted, quite precisely, as if he and Sten were back in the service. Sten puzzled, stood, came to attention, and returned it. It was a very crisp, very military farewell.
And Kilgour was gone.
Alex was telling only some of the truth. He had considered that his scheme against Poyndex could succeed best as a solo run. But there was more to it than that.
The back of his neck still crawled.
He savored each day, each minute, because he had the feeling it could well be the last. He had put his house—his huge estates and castles on Edinburgh, assuming they were yet unburnt by the Emperor’s revenge—in order.
Now he was ready.
At least, he thought, i’ Ah’m answerin’t m’ weird, Ah’ll noo take wee Sten wi’ me.
He shut the mood and the thought off.
Dinnae be gloomin’t aroun’ ae i’ y’r some braw Norsemen. Back on Earth, aeons gone, we listen’t’t’ their keenin’ an’ slipped behind ’em an’ slit their weasands.
Go oot wi’ a smile, lad.
He was at the door to his own compartments. As he palmed the doorswitch and it slid open, he heard a giggle.
The first woman he saw was Marl.
Oh dear, he thought. Ah’d recked th’ lass was gie’in’ me th’ look back whae Ah wae trainin’ her, an’ th’Laird knows she’s a fine woman, haein’ strength i’ her bones an’ a brain i’ her skull. M’ type, exactly, an’ Ah did hae plans f r th’ twa ae us.
But wee Hotsco made her moves first, and Alex, kindhearted thug that he was, hadn’t quite known what, if anything, to say to Marl, assuming he’d been right about the mutual attraction, not egotistical, and so he’d sort of stayed clear of the Counter-Intelligence Division he’d setup.
Marl, he noted, as the door slid shut behind him, was looking especially gorgeous, in a sleek wrap of a skirt, a frothed blouse, and a wrap laid to one side.
As was Hotsco, who was wearing one of Alex’s shirts and a dab of perfume behind each ear.
Oh dear, he thought. This’ll noo be splendifer’us.
“Ladies,” he managed.
Marl and Hotsco looked at each other and laughed. Alex noted an empty bottle in an ice bucket nearby.
“I would guess,” Hotsco said, “that our hero there is wondering what he should be doing.”
“Ah’m nunkint,” Alex managed, “Ah’ll be needin’t a wee drink.”
Hotsco got up and got him a drink from the compartment’s bar. Stregg. Iced.
“Your friend Marl showed up a couple of hours ago. She’s been telling me stories about spying and that. And we’ve been…talking.”
Hotsco’s tongue came out…moistened her lips.
“It turns out…that we have some common interests,” she said. “Besides you, I mean.”
“Oh dear.”
It was Marl’s turn to laugh.
“With Sten dead,” she said, “there’s not much in the way of CI to do. The Bhor have everything well in hand. And since I’m Head of Section, I gave myself a talking-to. Told myself I was working too hard, and deserved a break.”
Alex shot back the stregg and, while his esophagus returned from hyperspace, poured himself another.
“Marl came here,” Hotsco said. “And I invited her in. She’s quite a woman, you know.”
“Ah ken,” Alex said, now with a note of suspicion.
“Her world has some…interesting social customs. Very interesting,” Hotsco purred. “Ones that both of us would be intrigued with.”
“Oh dear.”
“You’re repeating yourself, Alex.”
Marl and Hotsco were both trying—with little success—to keep straight faces.
“I thought that she might want to come with us to Prime,” Hotsco said. “It’s a very long passage, you know. She thought that was a wonderful idea. So I helped her pack. She’s ready to travel. Isn’t that exciting?”
Alex recovered.
“Aye. Aye. Y’re welcome’t’ go, wee Marl. Ah think y’re daft, thinkin’ goin’ int’ th’ belly ae th’ beast is a holiday, but y’re welcome.”
Marl walked up, and sedately kissed him on the cheek, in thanks.
“When’s the ETD?”
“Ah thought,” Alex said, “we’ll lift ae once. Hotsco’s ship’s fueled an’ ready.”
“Do we have to leave now?” Hotsco wondered. “I talked to Marr and Senn…and they’re sending in a wonderful farewell meal. Perhaps in the morning shift?”
“Why then?” Alex asked.
Hotsco walked to the huge, circular bed and sprawled across it. It had been originally built, it was surmised, for one of the Emperor’s favorite’s pleasure. She stretched and rolled, a smooth, lithe kitten.
“Why,” she purred, “there’s so much more here. A lot more than on my ship. Even if we put the bunks together in my cabin. Isn’t there, Marl?”
And all Alex could manage was yet another “Oh dear.”
Chapter Thirty
“DOWN WITH THE Emperor!” the woman screamed, her mouth ragged with hate.
“Death to the slayer of the Manabi!” another being shouted—its display organ swollen to bursting.
“Kill the great blasphemer!” a huge bear of a man bellowed. “Kill him.”
The three were among fifty agitators working the crowd to a fever pitch. Not that it needed it. Some twenty thousand angry beings were spread out in front of the Parliament building.
They were being held back by a wavering line of black-uniformed Internal Security storm troops.
Banners the size of small buildings jutted from the crowd of demonstrators. The largest one—in the center—was a huge blowup of the Emperor’s face. Splashed in blood-red paint across the face was the word MURDERER.
The crowd started chanting in unison: “Down with the Emperor! Down with the Emperor!”
Poyndex’s gravcar swooped over the crowd. He keyed his mike: “Move in the tracks,” he said, calm. “Then activate Alpha and Delta companies.”
“Yessir,” crackled the voice of his aide.
Poyndex watched with professional interest as nine enormous personnel carriers burst into view. They struck from three sides, boxing the crowd against the front of the Parliament building. Thick clouds of pepper gas spewed from their turrets. As the crowd screamed and pulled back in shock, hundreds of IS troops exploded out of hiding and attacked with clubs and stun rods.
A com shrilled at Poyndex’s belt. He glanced down. Irritated. Then he saw the winking red light. It was the Emperor.
Poyndex sighed. Even in the middle of a riot, the Emperor came first.
He patched into his aide and turned over command. Then swung the gravcar around and headed for Arundel.
Poyndex was definitely not looking forward to the meeting. With a full-blown riot in his own backyard, the Emperor was not likely to be the happiest of supreme rulers.
He braced for the worst.
“I’m sick of this nonsense,” the Eternal Emperor roared. “Don’t they know they’ve lost? Sten is dead. The head has been cut off. There is nothing left for them to do but bleed to death and die, dammit.”
He pointed an accusing finger at Poyndex. “You’re not keeping the pressure on. You’re just sitting back and resting on my laurels. My victory.”
“The rebels can’t persist much longer, Your Highness,” Poyndex said. “It’s only a matter of time.”
The Emperor’s fist slammed down on the desk. A mass of reports spilled to the floor. “Time? Don’t speak to me about time!
“My fleets are still spread out over two-thirds of the Empire. A day doesn’t go by that the Zaginows or the Honjo or the Bhor—or some such group of malcontents—find a new and interesting way to embarrass me.
“What’s more…this madness is costing me. I’m bleeding cash like a pricked pig. And every week these fools oppose me adds at least a year to our eventual recovery.”
The Emperor glared at Poyndex—as if he were the source of all his woes. “They think we’re weak, Poyndex,” he said. “Even after the Manabi, they don’t think we have the nerve to hold the course.”
“A few more victories, Your Majesty,” Poyndex said, “and the opposition will collapse. All the progs will bear this out.”
“Drakh on the progs,” the Emperor said. “My gut says different. My gut says this has taken on a life of its own. That bloody mess outside the Parliament building is just one example. No one would have ever dared it, before. And how the hell did they get onto the palace grounds, anyway?”
Poyndex grimaced. “We should have that mopped up shortly, Your Majesty,” he said. “And the ringleaders brought to justice.”
“Be damned to justice,” the Emperor said. “I’m the judge. I’m the jury.”
He grew silent a moment. Lost in thought. Then he looked up at Poyndex. He spoke. So soft Poyndex had to strain to hear.
“Why do they make me angry?” he said. “I can be kind. Generous. Ask any of my friends.” The Emperor looked around the empty room as if to seek them out. Unconsciously his hand moved forward—reaching for the com unit. Then stopped. There was no one to call. The hand snatched back.
Poyndex remained quite still. It was no time to draw notice. He watched emotion play across the Emperor’s features. Then they became stone.
He turned to Poyndex. “I must secure my godhead now,” he said. “Crush this thing once and for all.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Poyndex said, ready for orders.
“They shall go the way of the Manabi,” the Emperor said. “I want their home worlds destroyed. So when their ships and troops return, they find nothing but dust.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Poyndex said, already thinking of how to put the order into motion. Choosing the ships, the teams, and the trusted officers who would lead.
“It is not necessary for the explosions to go off simultaneously,” the Emperor said. “There should be just enough delay—a few hours at most—between each planetbuster for the reality to sink in.
“And by god, when I’m done, they’ll know what terror is. They’ll know my wrath. They want a better life? Fine. Let them look for it in the hereafter.”
He glared at Poyndex. “Why are you still here?” he snarled. “You heard what I want. Do it.”
“Immediately, Your Highness,” Poyndex said. He came quickly to his feet, saluted, and moved to the door.
“One more thing, Poyndex,” the Eternal Emperor said.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Next time there’s a riot… Clot the gas. Use guns. You hear me?”
“Absolutely, Your Highness,” Poyndex said.
The Emperor stared at the door as it hissed closed behind Poyndex. Perhaps he had given the man too much leeway. Lately he’d begun to notice all the Internal Security forces around him. Forces Poyndex commanded.
He realized that he had become isolated. Cut off from all opinion. And everyone about him was a stranger. This was not healthy.
Why had he allowed this to happen? The answer came to him, grudgingly. Fear. Of dying. Clot the duplicate who would replace him. It really wouldn’t be him, would it? Freedom from the judgment machine came with a curse. The curse of mortality.
So he needed Poyndex and his guards to keep him safe. He required a ring of security so tight, no one could possibly penetrate it.
Yes. But what if Poyndex turns on you? Like he turned on the privy council.
