The Lost Secret

by Vaughn Heppner

  “I’m not sure that’s accurate, Sire.”

  “Are you’re saying my words are false?”

  “On no account,” Strand said. “I’m saying the weakness in the New Men has been the cause of most of your grief and loss.”

  “Firstly, we are not New Men,” the Emperor said. “We are men, true men, if you want to coin a term. The others are premen, submen.”

  “Your precursors,” Strand said.

  “That sounds too noble, and premen are anything but that. Yet, our genes came from their dirty, cluttered pool. What do you mean when you say losses?”

  “Golden Ural retreated with the invasion fleet from ‘C’ Quadrant, did he not?”

  “Bah! My cousin returned with tens of thousands of nubile young beauties. Some of them grace my court to this day, although I admit they are getting long in the tooth. I desire younger, more eager lovelies. Perhaps it’s time to launch another Sabine raid.”

  The Sabine Women were those the ancient Romans had kidnapped during a feast, returning with them to Rome as newly minted wives.

  “You’ve just pointed out the Throne World’s greatest weakness, Sire.”

  “That we’re strong and take from the weak?” asked the Emperor.

  “That you’re forced to risk a war that could destroy the Throne World and your rule because you need women for their genetic bounty.”

  “If you think Star Watch has the force to defeat—”

  “You strutting fool!” Strand shouted, while banging a fist on the table. “Can’t you see the risks of prematurely angering Star Watch? The willingness to accept pointless risks derives from your genetic failure, whose fault is none other than my own!”

  The Emperor’s eyes had narrowed. Perhaps no one had spoken to him like that for a long time—years, possibly.

  “We are the dominants,” the Emperor said. “We have no flaws.”

  Strand sighed, shaking his head. “Hubris is its own flaw. Your arrogance has already set in too deeply. It might be too late to save the New Men.”

  The Emperor’s thin nostrils expanded as he studied the bug before him. Finally, his passion settled down enough so the greatest of the Throne World dominants considered Strand and his idea through the lens of objective logic.

  “In your opinion,” the Emperor said slowly, “why is our inability to sire girls a weakness? And do not say because we cannot continue the race, as we’ve obviously done so and can continue to do so by kidnapping those we need.”

  “I can say it in a word, Sire. Autarky.”

  “What?”

  “Self-sufficiency,” Strand said. “You must go outside the Throne World in order to sustain the Golden Race. The humans on Earth could survive as they are, even in isolation. If anyone could isolate the Throne World, your kind would perish after a generation.”

  The Emperor rubbed his chin.

  “The inability to procreate females has left you vulnerable,” Strand said. “It isn’t automatically apparent because of the many gifts I bestowed upon you.”

  “Genetic gifts,” the Emperor said.

  “Precisely. You have great abilities, but I failed to give you the complete package.”

  The Emperor’s nostrils flared again, but he appeared thoughtful more than angry. Finally, he shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Our inability, as you call it, has merely spurred us on to greater feats.”

  “Would you allow me to beg to differ?” Strand asked meekly.

  The Emperor eyed him anew. “Very well, Strand. State your case. Make your argument. I’m listening.”

  The first hurdle, Strand thought to himself, as he composed himself to make one of the most important speeches of his life.

  “Sire, the flaw in the New Me—in the dominants,” Strand amended, seeing the Emperor’s eyes glitter, “has led to the gravest of errors during your reign.”

  “Pray tell, what was that?”

  “The invasion of ‘C’ Quadrant,” Strand said.

  The Emperor looked away before regarding Strand anew. “State your case, but make it quick. I find you tedious in the extreme.”

  “I know, I understand,” Strand said. “It is difficult for men like us to admit or even to hear about our flaws—”

  The Emperor glowered.

  “Call it what you want,” Strand said quickly. “The point is that the Throne World lacked and lacks genetic autarky. When our women become too old to bear young, we must kidnap more. That means the Throne World will always be forced to go on the hunt for women. I would argue that it has already forced the Throne World to move aggressively before it was ready, and will do so again.

  “Now,” Strand said, while holding up a restraining hand. “Let me point out a few more harsh realities. The Commonwealth of Planets dwarfs the number of populated worlds under the sway of the Throne World. They have a hundred to one, perhaps more, and outnumber us with their teeming hordes. Their vast industrial base makes a mockery of ours, advanced as Throne World manufacturing is.”

  “Enough!” the Emperor said. “What do you mean by saying ‘ours’? You have no part with us.”

  “That is false, Sire. I’m the greatest geneticist of the Throne World, the originator of all you have.”

  “So…the mask drops at last,” the Emperor sneered. “Do you think we should worship you as you once demanded of us?”

  Strand shook his head. “I lost the right to that a long time ago. I simply wish to fix my error.”

  “Spare me your false humility. It lacks all conviction.”

  “Do you see what you’re doing?” Strand asked.

  The Emperor stared at him before turning away.

  “You’re avoiding the issue by making this personal,” Strand said. “You surely see the truth of what I’m saying just as easily as I do. The Throne World—the dominants—if they wish to match and then dwarf the Commonwealth, must expand ever outward, pioneering new planets as they break new ground—”

  “As farmers?” the Emperor spat.

  “No, as industrialists,” Strand replied. “If you and your ilk are ever to conquer the Commonwealth, you will need vastly more warships and soldiers. You’ll need at least half the Commonwealth’s industrial output to face them in a total war. Such a proposition is decades away. But that’s only if you choose to expand, if you colonize new star systems the old-fashioned way, by sending your own people onto the surface. To do that, however, you’ll need to sire your own daughters. Otherwise, you’ll have to steal your women from someone, kidnap in the millions, tens of millions, in order to build up the numbers I’m envisioning. That will always lead to war before you’re ready to win.”

  “Colonize?”

  “Yes! Reach for the stars, Your Majesty, but do it through taming planets instead of defeating inferior soldiers. The premen have endless hordes to throw against you. Lull them for a century. Build a truly massive empire that can give you an invasion fleet that cannot fail. Until then, you’re doing what most aggressors have done for millennia: attacking far too soon when by waiting a little longer you could have everything fall into your lap.”

  The Emperor rubbed his chin.

  “There is an added bonus to my idea I haven’t yet mentioned,” Strand said.

  The Emperor looked up.

  “The quality of your women will improve over time,” Strand said. “They will be stronger, smarter and more beautiful as they become more like you. They will become fit companions for an all-conquering race. Yes, you have the greatest available beauties, but can they truly comprehend your greatness if they lack your breadth of intellect and are hopelessly outmatched physically?”

  “You have a point,” the Emperor said. “My concubines—the best of the ‘C’ Quadrant women—treat me more like a god than a man. I could keep kennels of dogs if I desired worship. Yes! I do desire fit companions for an Emperor. I seek them, but I cannot find them.”

  “It’s because they don’t yet exist,” Strand said. “With my help, you will watch extraordinary Thron
e World beauties grow before your eyes. Then, when they come of age, you may take them as a hero does his harem.”

  The Emperor began to nod, finally smiling. “You paint a rosy picture, Methuselah Man. Yet, I know you as a cunning serpent. There are poisoned thorns in your promise, things to destroy us.”

  “Test me in this, Sire. I wish to finish my greatest project: that of creating a Perfect Race. I’ve come close, but the answer yet eludes me.”

  The Emperor pushed back his chair and stood. He turned away, took several strides and then whirled around to face Strand. The Emperor held the handle to his electric whip. With a flick of a thumb, he turned it on so it crackled with power.

  “I’m minded to beat you to death,” the Emperor said in a low voice. “You have a subtle argument. It appeals to me. Yet, I distrust you. How could you…change it so we could sire daughters as well as sons?”

  “I would need more knowledge than I presently possess,” Strand admitted.

  “Ah…” the Emperor said. “I perceive your desire. It has become obvious. Golden Ural told me you would take this path.”

  “Of adding to the Throne World’s greatness?” asked Strand.

  “No. Of finding a way to ask our permission to go to the ancient Library Planet of the Builders,” the Emperor said. “Professor Ludendorff remembered the place when Maddox was chasing Lisa Meyers. You remembered what the professor had learned there about the mobile null region.”

  “Did Maddox thwart Meyers?” Strand asked, surprised how husky his voice became while asking the question.

  “Our spies tell me Maddox not only thwarted Meyers, but gained access to the mobile null region for Star Watch. Because of you, the Lord High Admiral possesses an ancient and deadly weapon.”

  “I see. Yes. That’s all the more reason to follow my plan.”

  “Long term self-improvement?” the Emperor asked.

  Strand nodded.

  “You’re trying to weasel your way into going to the Library Planet,” the Emperor said. “That would gain your objective of leaving your confinement.”

  “I wouldn’t put it like that, Sire. At the planet, I could find the genetic answer to the riddle that’s plagued me from the beginning. The Library Planet is the nearest repository of ancient Builder knowledge. Perhaps we could find other useful things or items there as well.”

  “We?” the Emperor asked.

  “I assume you’d wish to go on such a quest, Sire. It would cement you as the father of the dominants, the True Men. What’s more, at the treasure planet, you would surely find new secrets that would propel the Throne World back into the ascendancy over Star Watch. If you will admit it to yourself, Sire, in terms of battleship versus star cruisers, Star Watch has the Throne World beat every way you look at it.”

  “I must think about this,” the Emperor said.

  “Of course,” said Strand. “But I wouldn’t think too long.”

  The Emperor scowled. “Are you suggesting Maddox will race to the Library Planet?”

  “If not him, then Professor Ludendorff,” Strand said. “Give the Commonwealth this: they’re never content to sit on their past achievements. I’m sure Captain Maddox is already pushing to go.”

  “That isn’t what my spies are telling me.”

  Strand sat back with a longing half-smile. If only he could read the spy reports. Ever since the Iron Lady had left the helm of Star Watch Intelligence, their skills had deteriorated enough to make a difference.

  The Emperor stared into the distance as he obviously considered the idea.

  I’ve planted the seed. Now, it’s time to let it germinate and grow.

  The Emperor turned to him. “I’ll consider what you’ve said. Until then…don’t go anywhere.”

  Strand smiled painfully at the lame attempt at humor. He didn’t have to hold it long, at least.

  The heavy prison door swung open as the Emperor approached it. The towering monarch did not turn to give him a last look. Instead, the Emperor marched out, and the hatch swung shut with a clang.

  Strand’s heart beat faster. He was alone again, trapped like a drowning rat. He had to escape this place. Would the Emperor take the bait?

  Strand closed his eyes. He would have to wait. It should have been easy after all his practice, but it wasn’t.

  He stood, turned and slowly walked out of the front chamber. A fierce wish to gibber like a fool and prance as a chimpanzee seized him. He fought it, finally smothered it, and found himself sweaty.

  I must change my garments.

  He headed for the restroom, wondering what had just happened to him. Was madness lurking within him?

  Don’t even think that.

  He would not. Strand knew himself as the most logical person in the galaxy. Through sheer adamant willpower, he would remain sane, and he would gain each of his mightiest desires, including choking Captain Maddox to death…when the time came.

  Thought of that eased the treachery in his mind and allowed him to step more lively. Patience, just a little more patience, and he would renew the path to glorious achievement.

  -12-

  Golden Ural raced after his cousin the Emperor on a sky-shark. It was a tiny one-man aircraft designed for daring escapades, little more than a long plank with engine, aerodynamic fins, control handles, windshield and gun.

  The frame or “plank” was considerably longer and had more girth than Golden Ural. He was a tall New Man, although not as tall as his cousin. Ural had handsome, exaggerated golden-hued features and wore a pair of tinted goggles, a silver flight-suit and boots. A long rifle of ancient flintlock design lay strapped beside him with a sleek saber resting in a scabbard belted to his waist.

  Ural watched his cousin cavort in the sky, practicing high-G maneuvers with style and grace. That changed as the Emperor’s flight straightened and he waggled the sky-shark’s stubby wings. At that point, his cousin began to dive.

  The Emperor had become moody lately, and Ural wasn’t sure why. He hadn’t read any unsetting reports from their agents in the Commonwealth. Ural was in charge of the Throne World’s espionage service, although there were several black-ops missions in which the Emperor had deliberately kept him in the dark.

  Could those secret missions concern Captain Maddox? Ural was almost certain that was so. Maddox was his nephew, the son of Ural’s favorite brother. The death of his brother many years ago already—

  The Emperor dived even steeper than before. Did the recent moodiness include a hidden death wish?

  Ural turned his sky-shark, following his cousin’s maneuver, although without the extravagant steepness of dive.

  They flew high over a large mountain lake, heading toward rolling green hills. The ground was rushing up fast—

  Ural squinted through his goggles and past the sky-shark’s windshield. There on the hills: was that mass running men?

  Ural glanced at his cousin. The Emperor was on a direct intercept course for the runners. With a sinking feeling, Ural surmised the situation. In truth, the Emperor had been more than moody lately. For example, his cousin had begun romping with his concubines more openly. That wasn’t bad as such, but the Emperor had romped naked, in sight of others, and on several occasions had rutted openly like an animal.

  To Ural’s way of thinking, that showed mental deterioration. It could also mean the Emperor had followed one of the most ancient dictums in history: Power corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely.

  While the Emperor did not have absolute power, he did do as he pleased. Any dominant of the Throne World could theoretically challenge him. That would mean a duel to the death, one historically fought with swords or sabers.

  On more than one occasion, the Emperor had shown himself as the greatest duelist among them. Challenging him to meet on the field of honor was tantamount to a sentence of death.

  If not absolute power, what else could have caused the downward spiral in the Emperor’s mental balance?

  Ural had an opinion as to the answe
r. He wasn’t sure he cared to broach it just yet, not even to himself.

  The Emperor’s sky-shark leveled out a few meters above the grassy ground. He chased the running men—premen, it seemed—as they were white- and brown-skinned instead of richly golden like a dominant, and they were small creatures, surely the tallest a bare six feet.

  At that moment, the Emperor’s shark-gun began to chatter. It fired a stream of tracers, bullets that glowed with a bloody color as they traveled through the air. The tracers allowed the Emperor to follow his shots, and more importantly, to adjust to target.

  Some of the running men threw their hands into the air before pitching to the grassy ground. Red stains appeared on their backs. A few of the more observant threw themselves to the sides, bullets chewing the ground as the Emperor’s sky-shark passed over them.

  Ural could imagine the Emperor’s intent eyes and concentration. He watched as his cousin’s sky-shark lifted upward and did a tight loop and turn.

  The surviving premen scattered, running in all directions. There had to be fifty or sixty of them left.

  Ural did not intend to join his cousin in the killing of premen for the so-called sport of it. Besides, the Emperor hadn’t invited him to kill. So, to make sure the Emperor didn’t fly near and shout at him to start slaughtering the helpless, Ural throttled back speed, descended and finally came down for a bumpy grass landing on the sky-shark’s skids. His teeth jarred together, and his chin struck the main frame until he came to a halt.

  Ural did not groan as he rolled off. That would be unbecoming of a dominant. He stood, stretched and heard the sound of sky-shark gunfire from over a hill. There were screams, too, from the poor premen.

  Seconds later, Ural witnessed the Emperor executing a partial loop as his cousin turned and flew in a different direction, no doubt chasing other victims.

  Ural looked away. He would not openly chide his cousin about this, as that would be unwise. Whatever else one could say about Ural, he was not foolish, but considered the sagest of the Emperor’s confidents.