The Return of the Emperor

by Chris Bunch

  A sniper found the running Havell in his sights ... lost him in a grenade blast ... then touched the trigger. The AM2 round blew Havell's chest away.

  Forty-two...

  Corum and Valdiva zagging ... rolling ... firing ... The chainguns found and smashed them.

  Sten found himself flat. Stunned. Disoriented. He started to his feet—and the Mantis reflexes took over. He rolled, over and over, somehow keeping hold of his broken-stocked scattergun. Explosive rounds stitched centimeters over his head, and he was back in the hollow. Safety. Stay here, his mind said. They won't see you. They won't find you.

  His body disobeyed. He ripped out of his combat harness, thumbed the switch on a grenade, and threw the vest back, into the wire.

  The first grenade detonated—and the others went off in sympathetic explosions.

  Sten was up, stumbling. Away. You're blown. Move! The others! Clot the others—they're dead! Follow the damned orders I'm issuing!

  A five-man patrol came out of the smoke. Gun up, trigger held back—and red spray instead of men, AM2 bullets exploding the razor fence behind them and its sensors.

  Through, skin ripping.

  Water-sound. Run, damn you. It doesn't hurt.

  A bank. Flat-dive over—fearing rocks, hoping water. Neither. Smash into the cushion ... the ripping cushion of rusted high-piled concertina wire.

  The knife out of your arm, man.

  Slashing.

  Nothing to slash. Somehow the knife was in its “sheath,” and Sten was crashing forward, into the water and through the shallows.

  Someone behind him was firing.

  Bullet-splashes.

  Deeper. Dive. Go under. Hold your clottin’ breath. You don't need oxygen.

  Now. Surface. One gasp—go under. Swim if you can. Let the current carry you. Away. Down the river.

  One hand moved inside his uniform, found a tiny box, slid the cover back on the box, and pressed a stud.

  Swim. You can.

  Safety.

  Downriver. Alex. The pickup.

  Sten knew he would never make it.

  * * * *

  Kilgour paced the control room of the tacship, waiting. It was not much of a pace—no more than four steps at the maximum before he would slam into something.

  The ship was grounded on the river beach chosen for the pickup point. Alex had the hatch open. His orders were clear and exact: remain in place until one hour before daybreak or if discovered. If no one is at the pickup point, return to the ocean. Try to remain near mouth of the river. The team would try, if the pickup was blown, to E&E to the ruins of Reedsport. If no contact was made, he was to head offplanet and report.

  In the not-very-distance, Alex could hear the sounds of hell. He hoped it was being given, not gotten. Once more he cursed Sten, then broke off in midobscenity as an ululation began from a com speaker.

  One screen showed a projection of the target area. Just outside it, a tiny red light blinked—from the river. Mid-river, the map told him.

  "Clot!” The obscenity was heartfelt. The light—and signal—came from a standard search-and-rescue transmitter. Each member of the team had carried one, with orders to activate it only if they missed pickup. Certainly not anywhere close to the target zone.

  An SAR light. One.

  Kilgour zoomed the projection back, to see if there were others. Nothing.

  His fingers found a mike. “This is pickup. Go."

  Nothing but dead air. The light continued to blink.

  Kilgour took about a nanosecond to decide that those clear and exact orders could get stuffed. Seconds later, he lifted the tacship, banged the drive selection into Yukawa power—and be damned who could see the torch—and drove forward, upriver.

  A screen flashed at him. Six gravsleds.

  Alex took one hand from the controls and slapped a switch. The tacship's chainguns blasted. The tacship yawed, ripping through the top of a redwood grove, and almost went in before Alex had control again. He shot through the falling debris of the gravsleds and a voice from a speaker smashed at him:

  "Unidentified tacship! Ground, or we fire!"

  Alex was forced to lift out of the gorge. He banked the ship into a tight spiral, took three steps away from the control board, and hit all launch on the long-activated weapons panel. Eight Goblin XDCs salvoed upward. He found time to hope the medium-range antiship missiles’ brains were awake, and there he was back at the controls, diving down into the gorge; the cliffs dropped away, and Kilgour was almost overflying the blinking light—and into the alerted target zone.

  He spun ship, still under power, his stabilizing and nav-gyros screaming, killed power, and went to McLean power.

  Far overhead, a nuclear fire blossomed.

  Kilgour splashed down and was at the hatch. Just upstream, a body floated down toward him, motionless. Then an arm lifted, trying to swim.

  Kilgour stretched ... almost fell in ... then had the body by its ripped coveralls. He flipped the man into the ship and was back behind the controls and under full power, hands darting across the controls, barely finding time to cycle the lock closed as the tacship clawed for altitude, straight up, toward and through the nuclear blast that had formerly been an Imperial warship.

  It may have been the instant fury of Kilgour's reactions, or just the luck of the Scots. But he cleared planet—and vanished into silence under full AM2 drive.

  Behind him Sten lay unconscious. His mind concussed and his body, having done its duty and preserved the organism, shut down until repairs were made.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE LIBRARIAN AND her staff were considering their futures when—or rather if—their boss ever departed. One thought fondly of suicide, another planned a complete breakdown. The librarian herself considered one of two new careers: as a staffer for an orgy livie production company, or, perhaps, as a serial murderer.

  Her job had suddenly become a complete, dawn-to-dawn nightmare.

  It had not begun like that, nor had it been like that for nearly five years. In fact, she had been enormously envied for getting the post.

  Somewhat dissatisfied, certainly overqualified and without time to do her own research and publishing in her previous job as head librarian at a large university, she had been contacted, out of the blue, by an executive search service. She was offered what she thought was the ultimate job—at triple her present salary. Did she mind relocating to a different system? No. The headhunter seemed unsurprised, as if he knew everything about her. The position was as a private librarian. The woman demurred—she had no intention of burying herself in some recluse's dusty archives and letting the world pass.

  Nothing like that at all, the man explained. He suggested she visit the planet of Yongjukl and investigate her new job. She would have a round-trip ticket. He offered to accompany her. She declined. The librarian was quite attractive—and the headhunter seemed disappointed.

  The library was nearly mansion-size and was but one building on sprawling grounds. The main house dwarfed the library. It was secluded, with more than a thousand square kilometers of guarded, secure grounds. Her own quarters were lavish. There was a full staff: cooks, cleaners, gardeners.

  Not that the librarian was imprisoned. She had her own gravcar, and a large, sophisticated city was no more than an hour or two away. She was allowed to keep her own hours—as long as the system remained current. If she ever needed help, she could hire as many day-workers as necessary.

  Computers? Scanners? Filing robots? State of the art—and new models provided regularly.

  She asked if she had permission to pursue her own studies and research. Certainly. Could she have visitors? If she chose. However, if she left the grounds, she was required to carry a remote. She must consider herself on call dawn-to-dawn. An unlikely possibility.

  It seemed too good to be true. She felt like a character in one of the goth-livies she had supposedly given up when she was twelve but still “live
d,” somewhat guiltily, in her occasional bubblebaths.

  Especially since there was no one in the mansion. No one except the staff. And none of them had ever met the mansion's owner.

  When she returned to her own world, her first question to the headhunter was: Who would I be working for?

  The man explained. The mansion—and its grounds—were part of a family estate. Which one? I cannot tell you that. But the mansion must remain with the family, and be maintained. If not—it is a matter of a rather elaborate and eccentric trust, my dear—an entire commercial empire would be disassembled.

  At the head of the family is the young heir, the man continued. You may never meet him. He is extremely busy and prefers living closer to the Empire's center. But he is an unusual man. He might well show up one day.

  Alone or with an entourage—in which case he will require absolute privacy. The man shrugged. It must be nice to be so wealthy that you can order your life that precisely.

  If I take this position, the woman asked—which you can accept on a weekly, monthly, or yearly contract, the headhunter interrupted—I must keep that a secret? No, not necessarily, the man said. It seems to be a favorite topic about once a year by the planet's newsvids. Say what you wish—it is not as if there's anything to hide.

  Thinking dark thoughts of windswept castles and disguised, royal lovers, she accepted the position.

  For eleven years, it was paradise. Staggering amounts of material churned in daily. It seemed the unknown heir subscribed to every scientific, military, or political journal in the Empire. The material was scanned, summarized, and mostly discarded by a computer/scanner that seemed to have completely elitist tastes. It was, the woman once thought, a machine that seemed programmed to provide an instant update for someone newly risen from the grave. The computer had two sysop stations. One was in a sealed room, the other belonged to the librarian. The sealed unit seemed to contain, she learned when she snooped in boredom, some files that were inaccessible to the rest of the system.

  Annually the entire files for that year were deleted. Then the machine began all over, collecting, summarizing, and storing.

  Until a little more than six years before.

  At that time, the computer had switched modes and begun storing everything. The librarian did not notice until year's end. She panicked—just slightly. Had she done something wrong? She did not want to lose her position. Not only was she perfectly happy on this world, having met and loved a wonderful succession of mates, but she was publishing important analyses in a steady stream, the envy of her far-lesser-paid and, to their minds, overworked colleagues in the field. The man at the other end of the emergency contact number soothed her. Not to worry, he said. Just continue. So continue she did.

  Now she was going quite insane. Because, to everyone's astonishment, the heir—a man she thought most likely a legal myth by now—arrived. A small ship set down on the small landing pad. One man got out, and the ship instantly lifted away.

  Guards met him. “Sir, this is a private—"

  The man said words—words everyone had been told would be uttered if their boss ever showed up.

  No one knew what to do and cowered for their jobs.

  The man asked to be taken to his room. He showered, changed, and asked for a simple meal. Then he buzzed and asked to be shown to the library.

  In the huge hall he politely told the librarian that he would appreciate it if she remained on standby. He unlocked the door to the second sysop station, and the madness started.

  He seemed to scan everything—and want more. She had to hire assistants. He appeared insatiably curious. Again, the librarian thought of someone raised from the dead. No, she corrected herself. Someone who had been in longsleep, like the starships in ancient times before AM2 drive.

  It went on, the man ate sparingly, slept little, but soaked up information like a sponge. Once, when the door opened for a moment, she saw that he had five screens scrolling simultaneously and a synth-voice giving a sixth stream of data.

  The librarian prayed for sleep.

  Then it stopped. The man walked out of the room, leaving the door open.

  He said he was sleepy.

  The librarian agreed blearily.

  He told her he would shut down the system.

  Yes. The woman and her equally zombied assistants stumbled for their quarters. The librarian noticed—but it did not register until days later—as she passed the room where the second sysop station was, that the computer seemed to be punching up files and then deleting them en masse.

  It did not matter.

  All that mattered was sleep.

  * * * *

  The man slipped out an ignored side gate to the mansion onto the road. He walked down the road, briskly. He wore nondescript clothes—just another of that world's blue-collar workers.

  He stopped once. The walls of the mansion's grounds stretched solidly down the road.

  He felt slight regret.

  The computer had told him that when he left the staff would be paid off with handsome bonuses and encouraged with larger bonuses to relocate offworld. The mansion, the library, and the outbuildings would be razed within two weeks. Then the bare grounds would be donated to the planetary government for whatever purposes it saw fit.

  A pity. It was beautiful.

  The computer told him there were ten others like it scattered around the Empire.

  He now knew six years of history. His plans—no. Not yet. But he had been given another destination.

  Lights blazed behind him. A creaking gravsled lofted toward him, laden with farm produce for the early markets. The man extended his hand.

  The gravsled hissed to a halt. The driver leaned across and opened the door.

  The man climbed inside, and the gravsled lifted.

  "Dam’ early to be hitchin',” the driver offered.

  The man smiled, but did not answer.

  "You work for th’ rich creech owns that palace?"

  The man laughed. “No. Me an’ the rich don't speak the same tongue. Just passin’ through. Got stranded. Dam’ glad for the lift."

  "Where you headed?"

  "The spaceport."

  "You're light on luggage. For a travelin’ man."

  "I'm seekin’ a job."

  Snorted laughter came from the driver. “Golden luck to you, friend. But there's dam’ little traffic comin’ in or out. Times ain't good for spacecrew."

  "I'll find something."

  "Dam’ confident, ain't you? Like a fellow who thinks like that. Name's Weenchlors.” The driver stuck out a paw. The man touched thumbs with him. “You?"

  "I use the name Raschid,” the man said.

  He leaned back against the raggedy plas seats and stared ahead toward the lightening sky—toward the spaceport.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  BOOK TWO

  IMPERATOR

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  AN HOUR AFTER dawn, Security let the five members of the privy council out of their shielded bunkers into the fog-hung compound. They looked at the craters where the assassins had exploded as they died, the two rows where the dead Security beings lay covered, the torn wire, and the shrapnel-ripped buildings. They could not see the hilltop, where smoke trailed up from the N'Ran's launch site, and the warship Alex's blind-launched Goblins had flambéed was a radioactive cloud, drifting and contaminating its way inland.

  Four of them shared anger—how could this have happened? The other, Kyes, was trying to label what emotion he did feel. In all his years, no one had ever tried to harm him physically. Destroy his career and life—but that was in bloodless executive chambers.

  All of them were outraged. Who and why?

  The Kraas, hardly strangers to physical violence, were pure rage, but with something else behind it: the instinct of cunning.

  "We want the bosses. This un's a conspiracy, not a buncha wildcats on a bust-out."

  "I agree,” Ky
es put in.

  "The real bosses c'n wait,” the thin one said. She had understood exactly what her sister was hinting. “Till Monday, anyway. What we want are th’ evil beings who planned this atrocity. Nobody else but th’ Honjo."

  "Clot that clottin’ tacship,” the fat one said. “We got us some real bodies now."

  Lovett, as always, reached the bottom line. “Conspiracy. Indeed. Far superior to any violation of territorial limits by a tacship."

  "I will issue the orders to the fleet,” Malperin snapped, and was inside.

  "Righto,” one Kraa said. “First we snag the AM2. Then we kill—slow—whoever actually come a'ter us.

  "Them,” her sister agreed, “an’ some others. We've been needin’ an excuse for some housecleanin'."

  * * * *

  It was a peculiar curiosity that social entities could take on a personality of their own—a personality that remained the same for many years, even though the beings who first established the entity's policies which had given it that personality were long dead and forgotten. To psycho-historians, such an organization was an “Iisner.” The same could be applied, on occasion, to military formations. One of the most famous examples was a tiny unit called the Seventh Cavalry. The unit, from inception, was fairly poorly led and suffered enormous casualties in combat, culminating in one entire element being wiped out to the last man. Over the next hundred E-years, in three successive wars, even though they had been modernized with wheeled or in-atmosphere transport, they were still abysmally generaled and regularly decimated.

  A more modern example was the Imperial 23rd Fleet, now ordered to attack the Honjo worlds and seize their AM2 caches. When the Tahn wars had begun, the 23rd had been obliterated, mostly due to the incompetence of its admiral, who had had the good grace to be killed during that obliteration.

  A new fleet was formed. It fought through the rest of the war, officered indifferently at best and known throughout the Imperial Services as a good outfit for anyone curious about reincarnation.

  For some completely unknown reason, the 23rd was kept on the rolls when the war ended, when far superior, more famous, and “luckier” formations were broken up and their cased colors returned to depot.