Sten and the Mutineers

by Allan Cole

  “Same with democracy,” the Emperor said. “Just a fancy word invented by the Greeks for a political system that is always bordering on chaos and outright anarchy.”

  He started the eggplant strips frying in olive oil, then set to work dicing blood-red tomatoes fresh from his garden.

  “Of course, it wasn’t a real democracy,” he said. “Even in Athens there were more slaves than citizens. And to be fair, it was the rich families who ran things, not your average Joe Papadopoulos.”

  Mahoney thought that it sounded pretty much like how things were today. Even here on Prime World, where the Emperor took a personal interest in government, it was the rich and well-connected who had the upper hand. Elsewhere in the Empire, his boss maintained a general hands-off policy. As long as they paid their AM2 bills on time and didn’t conspire with his enemies, he let them run things pretty much the way they wanted. But if they crossed him—well, that’s when he sent for Mahoney. Which is why, Ian strongly suspected, the Emperor had invited him to dinner.

  The Emperor said, “You know, after being the Man in Charge for a couple of millennia or so, you’d think I’d get used to those guys in Parliament. It goes without saying that they are all greedy backstabbers—that’s the nature of the beast.”

  He sipped his ouzo. Nodded appreciatively.

  “Bet if I commissioned a study from one of my pet eggheads,” he continued, “they’d find that a whopping majority of the drakh-heads were abused as children. Which is why they become politicians. To revenge themselves on an uncaring world.”

  “I wouldn’t take that bet, boss,” Ian said. “Never met a politico whose headbolts weren’t on just finger tight.”

  The Emperor laughed. Using his broad-bladed knife, he swept the diced tomatoes into a bowl, then got busy mincing a half a dozen or so fat garlic bulbs, followed by a palmful of basil. The scent soon had Mahoney’s mouth watering.

  Drakh the politicians. He was hungry.

  “Normally I take everything in stride,” the Emperor said. “I have my little tricks, you know?”

  He paused to polish off his ouzo and slid the empty glass over to Ian, who downed his own and made a couple of fresh drinks.

  “Like this dish,” the Emperor said. “Different ingredients that might not always play well together in your belly. But if I assemble them just so…”

  He grabbed the pan of sizzling eggplant and layered it in a baking dish. Then he quickly spooned the mixture of tomatoes, garlic and basil on the eggplant and blessed the contents with a few twists of sea salt and a couple of cranks of black pepper.

  The Emperor displayed the contents to Ian. “Looks a mess, doesn’t it?” he said. “Just a jumble of veggies that’ll slop off your plate. But then I do this…”

  He got out a big bowl of what Ian took to be some sort of crumbled white cheese.

  “Feta,” the Emperor said. “Goat’s cheese.”

  Mahoney frowned. He’d tried goat before. It was during a barely remembered foray against a nomadic desert tribe. The ripe smell of old goat meat roasting over a dried dung fire brought the memory back, and he wrinkled his nose.

  The Emperor caught his reaction. Laughed. Shoved the bowl at Ian. “Give it a try,” he said.

  Ian hesitated. “Go on,” the Emperor pressed. “You’ll be surprised.”

  Mahoney took a pinch of cheese and popped it into mouth. To his delight, the flavor was neither strong nor mild, but smooth and mellow with just a little bite at the back of the tongue.

  The Emperor smiled at Mahoney’s pleased expression.

  “Most folks think there are only four flavors,” the Emperor said. “Sweet, bitter, sour and salty. But my daddy taught me that there was a fifth. He called it Umami. Said it made your taste buds complete.”

  He tapped the bowl. “Like this feta cheese,” he said.

  With that, the Emperor grabbed up a double handful of feta and distributed it over the eggplant mixture. He repeated the action until the baking dish wore a snow-white cap of cheese.

  Then he washed his hands, donned some fireproof gloves and moved to the oven. He slid the dish onto a metal rack on one side.

  “When that’s done,” the Emperor said, “I’ll have turned an unruly mess into something not only manageable, but delicious. All because I played dictator and imposed my culinary will on chaos.”

  Although his boss was speaking in vague generalities, Ian was starting to get the feeling that the Emperor had it in for somebody in particular, and he started running down a mental list of potential candidates for the high jump.

  But he forgot all that when the Emperor reached back into the oven and pulled out a sizzling roasting-tray and the tantalizing odor of chicken and lemon and spices filled the air.

  His boss placed the tray on the table, revealing a large, golden brown chicken surrounded by quarter-cut, unpeeled potatoes, also a rich brown.

  He flipped the chicken over—breast side down—and stirred the potatoes, exposing the underdone white surfaces. He spooned chicken gravy over the whole thing.

  Mahoney had enjoyed this dish once before. It was Greek lemon chicken and potatoes. He knew the Emperor had rubbed the chicken inside and out with mixture of lemon—fresh from the tree in his garden—extra virgin olive oil, Greek oregano, and minced garlic. The potatoes got a similar bath.

  The Emperor put the pan back in the oven and turned to Ian, stripping off the gloves. Ian dutifully started to pour a couple of more ouzos, but the Emperor raised a hand.

  “We’re going to need something stronger about now, Ian,” he said. “Metaxa should do the trick.”

  Mahoney smiled. “Metaxa, it is, boss.”

  This drink went straight to Ian’s Irish heart. It was an ancient Greek liqueur—a mixture of brandy and wine—the Emperor had spent decades recreating. It had a flavor like no other, and had a way of boosting your energy and mental faculties. Very much like Irish whiskey, but without the resultant hangover.

  They both downed a couple of shots, then Mahoney refilled their glasses. They would sip these while the Emperor made a Greek salad—mainly greens from his garden with a goat cheese, lemon, and olive oil dressing.

  While he worked his knife, the Emperor said, “I assume you heard that Lord Wichman is considering a run for president of the Parliament.”

  Mahoney’s eyes narrowed. So that’s what this was about.

  “He’s formed one of those phony exploratory committees,” the Emperor continued. “You know, where they get a group of people together to discuss a decision that’s already been made.”

  Mahoney grimaced. “When it comes to politics, Wichman’s a joke,” he said. “He bought his seat in Parliament I don’t know how many years ago. From what I’ve heard, nobody has seen him on the floor since he was sworn in.”

  “Well, he’s been a busy boy since his son got himself taken hostage,” the Emperor continued. “Seems he’s greased enough palms to buy a seat on the Special Select Intelligence Committee.”

  Ian’s eyebrows rose. The few beings who knew anything about the mutiny were on that panel. Mahoney had dealt with the members on and off over the years—usually around budget time. Normally, they were all handpicked by the Emperor for their ability to keep their mouths shut and increase Mercury Corps funding whenever the Emperor—at Ian’s behest—deemed it necessary.

  Apparently Wichman had managed to bypass the Emperor’s control of the panel.

  Mahoney said, “Let me take a wild guess, Your Highness. He’s threatening to leak news about the mutiny to force us to take immediate action to free his son.”

  The Emperor sighed. “Not to my face,” he said. “Or to the faces of any of my representatives. Otherwise we wouldn’t be having this oh-so-reasonable conversation over a nice Greek dinner.”

  Mahoney nodded. An open threat by Wichman would have brought the Emperor’s wrath dow
n upon him.

  “Doesn’t he know that if we move on the mutineers, the first casualty will be his son?” Mahoney said.

  The Emperor snorted. “He doesn’t give a drakh about his son,” he said. “Probably worth more to him martyred than alive. He’d be a shoo-in for the presidency of the Parliament.”

  The light suddenly dawned for Mahoney. “And the presidency would give him a seat at the table in any negotiations with the Tahn,” he said. The picture became clearer still. “He’s got visions of trading up from casinos and resorts to some serious war profiteering.”

  The Emperor roared laughter and clapped him on the back. “Give that man a cee-gar,” he said. Patted his breast pocket. “Fresh out,” he said. “Filthy habit, anyway.”

  So he poured them both two more Metaxas instead.

  “What do you want to do about him, boss?” Mahoney said.

  “Right now, nothing,” the Emperor replied. “In fact, I’m going to buddy up to him as if I don’t suspect a thing. We’re even going to grant him a favor. Which I need you for.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “He wants a way to communicate with his son without the mutineers knowing about it,” the Emperor said.

  Ian thought a minute, then nodded. “I can have Lieutenant Sten try to slip Gregor something when he’s aboard the Flame, negotiating with the mutineers.”

  “Will we be able to monitor what is said?” the Emperor wanted to know.

  “No problem, boss.”

  “Then, do it,” the Emperor said.

  “Uh…boss… One other thing?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do we still want to keep Gregor alive, sir? I mean, now that we know his daddy doesn’t really care all that much.”

  “Nothing’s changed, Ian,” the Emperor said. “In fact, tell young Sten that if something bad happens to Gregor you’ll bust him down to whatever is lower than a buck private.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Good. Now let’s eat.”

  And he went to oven and hauled out his dish of the day: Aubergine Politiko.

  A minute later, Mahoney and the Eternal Emperor were digging in with gusto.

  But at the back of his mind Mahoney couldn’t help but wonder what special kind of Hell the Emperor had in mind for Lord Wichman.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THE NAVIGATOR

  The congregation of the Church of the Universal Location sat hunched over their holo boards, crystalline light wands flickering as they built a wondrous image.

  Swirling numbers and symbols cometed across uttermost space, leaving glowing trails and bursts of light as miniature suns bloomed, then died; planets were ripped from orbit and thrown into one another, shattering into a great sparkling clouds of rock and ice and dust.

  In the center of the group—directing the congregation like an orchestra maestro—was the dark, slender figure of Bishop Shaklin, waving arms elegantly to the rhythm of inner music, beaded dreadlocks clacking, keeping time.

  As exotic and complex as the slowly developing scene on the Holoimager appeared, Shaklin devoted only a small part of his brain on the group’s mutual task: navigating the tricky shoals of the Possnet Sector.

  It was a desolate place, created by a billion-year-old disaster. It was like the island chains on ancient Earth, where continental shelves collided and volcanoes erupted on the floor of the seas, dribbling out land masses in the form of molten lava.

  And like the islands, the desolate mini-worlds of Possnet Sector were inhabited by beings who had fled famine and pestilence and the wrath of others.

  It was an ideal “Hole in the Wall” for criminals and terrorists and pirates like Venatora and her Himmenops.

  They were by far the most powerful and feared of the Possnet pirates and if Venatora drew Aces in her deadly game for the Emperor’s Imperium X she would rival the Eternal Emperor himself out here in the Fringe Worlds.

  And if he tried to send the Imperial Navy in after her, the Emperor’s losses would be enormous.

  The Flame sat on the very edge of her domain. Shaklin jabbed his wand at one section, and a red light started flashing. Directing his congregation to follow his lead, he waved his wand, and more red lights popped up.

  Some of the lights represented Venatora’s fortresses, all defended by her Zabanya guardswomen. Most were mine fields carefully laid out to confound even the most sophisticated battle computers.

  The mines were the best money could buy on the arms black market and were quite capable of taking out an Imperial battleship if an overconfident ship’s captain became careless.

  Venatora had been pressing the mutineers to conclude the deal. Zheng and Rual were all but convinced, especially as the anxiety level of the other crewmembers rose to the boiling point.

  Still, Shaklin urged patience. He appealed to the greed of Zheng and Rual, pointing out that the Emperor could easily outbid Venatora and there was no reason to believe that he’d ever let all that Imperium X loose on the black market.

  Shaklin, however, was mainly concerned about what kind of lonely existence they were all in for if they had to take refuge in the Possnet Sector for the rest of their lives.

  “We can never leave,” he told them. “The Emperor will have a price on all our heads. Why, some of the other pirates might even be tempted to betray us to the Imperials.”

  “The clottin’ Emperor will never give us amnesty,” Rual insisted during one heated discussion.

  Rual was starting to get over-excited, pacing up and down, waving her arms. “And even if he does agree, how do we know he’ll keep his word?”

  Shaklin knew that much of Rual’s reluctance was that she wanted avenge herself on Gregor. He had some sympathy with that view, although violence was abhorrent to all members of the Church of the Universal Location.

  At the perfect intersection of locus points there would be eternal peace and plenty for all beings who dared travel the soul-wearying path of enlightenment. He and his people had been on that long journey as far as anyone could remember.

  In the distant past, of which there were only oral records—tales told on wintery nights—his people had always been on that Road to Salvation. Be it across desert wastes, briny seas, steaming jungles, or bitterly cold and dark Uttermost Space.

  No, he would avoid violence—unless it was absolutely necessary to protect himself and his congregation.

  Besides, he doubted they could trust either one of them. When it came lies and betrayal, he suspected the Eternal Emperor and the Pirate Queen were equals.

  And it was for this reason that Shaklin was desperately seeking a third way.

  He and his congregation had been swept up in the mutiny. Gregor was a cruel master, and it was a wonder his throat hadn’t been cut long before.

  And so the congregation had rioted and mutinied with the others. Shaklin was ashamed to admit they had allowed greed to color their dreams as much as the others.

  Dreams of enough credits to free themselves from all duties except the search for the Universal Location.

  The Elders had been predicting a breakthrough for several decades now. Shaklin wondered—no, he prayed—that this mutiny would turn out to be a nugget of luck that would fund that final breakthrough to The Other.

  But then reality had set in. And the viciousness of some of their fellow crewmembers—especially the ringleaders, Zheng and Rual—was appalling.

  Once he’d recovered his senses, Shaklin started to plot another course. They would have to go along with the negotiations. Buying time to find another path.

  There was a small escape craft on the Flame that Shaklin had been secretly rigging for a long jump. They would need supplies. And, yes, as much as he abhorred the idea, they would need weapons as well.

  In the game between Venatora and the Emperor, there was sure to be a moment of maximum conf
usion when he and his congregation could slip away.

  And the next thing anyone knew, they’d be gone.

  Shaklin smiled to himself. He might even find a way to take a few of the ore cars with them. These could be sold for enough to fund years of travel and research.

  Just then—on the far edge of swirling image—he saw a blip. Just a drop of golden light.

  There it was again.

  And again.

  Then it was gone.

  Shaklin turned his head. Across the chamber, Zheng was slumped in a gravchair, while Rual nervously paced back and forth.

  Every once in awhile Zheng would take a surreptitious nip from a silver flask, his pink tongue darting in to lap up the spirits.

  Rual’s long, skeletal face seemed more drawn than usual. And her huge, never-blinking eyes seemed to stare into nothingness.

  There was another blip on the Holoimager.

  A drop of gold that appeared and then vanished so quickly you wondered if it was imaginary.

  And then it came again, and Shaklin looked over at Zheng.

  Rual, who could never stay still for a second, saw him turn.

  She elbowed Zheng. Zheng looked up—expectant. Struggling to hide sudden fear.

  And Shaklin mouthed the words, “They’re coming.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  THE GANG OF THREE

  Sten emptied the Flame’s control room of everyone except his team to plan the vital first moves in their mission. The last thing they needed was interference from Capt. W’lson.

  As Alex so aptly put it: “Th’ captain is sae thick he cooldn’t puir piss in a boot wi’ a hole in th’ toe an’ th’ directions writ oan th’ heel.”

  As the team’s psy-war expert, Doc took the lead. He had Shaklin’s dossier up on the monitor. The bishop made an exotic figure with his long, beaded dreadlocks, wispy chin beard and dark, hawklike features.