The Return of the Emperor

by Chris Bunch

  He wished like clot he could ask the Emperor how he did it. Where had he been for all those years? What had he done? And why in clot wasn't he dead? No, best not ask. The Emperor was jealous of his secrets.

  "The last time we talked together,” the Emperor said, “I was doing my damndest to give you a promotion. You turned me down. I hope you aren't planning on making that a habit."

  Oh, clot, here it comes. Sten braced himself.

  "How does head of Mercury Corps sound?” the Emperor said. “I'll raise its command grade and give you a second star. How does that sound, Admiral?"

  "Retired admiral, sir,” Sten said, gulping. He had to get it out fast. “And I hate to seem ungrateful and all, but no thanks. Please."

  Sten saw the cold look knot the Emperor's brow. Then it eased slightly. “Why?” It was a one-word command.

  "It's like this. I've spent my whole life soldiering. In public service, if you will. I've been rewarded far more than I could have ever dreamed. I was nothing. A Vulcan Delinq. Now, I'm an admiral. And you want to make it with two stars. Thank you, sir. But no thanks.

  "I have to start making my own life. Find a place for myself in the civilian world. I was confused before. Maybe I still am. But only a little. Because I'm looking forward to it. It's time for me to start doing the usual, dull human business."

  Sten thought of Lisa Haines, and how undull his life might have been if events had not intervened. The whole time he had spoken, he had kept his eyes down. Now he looked up to see the Emperor glaring at him, eyes white steel.

  "I'm not doing a good job of this, sir,” Sten said. “I'm not explaining very well. It's not something that comes out easy for someone like me."

  He said no more. The Emperor would let him know if more was welcome. The glare shut off. The Emperor chugged half his drink, then lifted his legs up on his desk and eased back in his chair.

  "I understand,” he said. “I'm asking you to make a big sacrifice. Actually, another big sacrifice. But I don't think you realize the situation."

  He finished his drink, leaned over, and hooked the bottle with a finger, poured, and shoved the stregg back to Sten. They both drank—and refilled.

  "But look at the mess we're in,” the Emperor continued as if there had not been a halt. “Beings are starving. Millions have no work. Just about any government you look at is near collapse. Just getting the AM2 to the right places and fast is going to be a nightmare. Much less all the other troubles I see ahead. Now what am I going to do about all this—without any help?"

  Sten shook his head. He had no answer.

  "So why is it a big surprise when I ask someone like you—with all those years of public service, as you said—to stay with me now? Where else can I get that kind of experience?"

  "Yessir,” Sten said. “I see your point. But—"

  "But me no buts, young Sten,” the Eternal Emperor said. “Look. I'm not asking for me. I'm asking for your Empire. How can you refuse? Tell me that. How can you look me in the eye and refuse to help?

  "But don't answer yet. Forget Mercury Corps. I have a better idea. I'm making you my chief troubleshooter—with some kind of fancy plenipotentiary sort of title. Help me out with heads of state, tricky negotiations, and any kind of major crisis situation.

  "And for your first job, I want you to help me out with the Bhor. I want to do something special for them. They've been my most loyal subjects. They were your idea way back, if I recall."

  "Yessir,” Sten said.

  "So. They're going to have a big celebration in the Lupus Cluster. Honoring my return and all and the victory over those clots who wanted to be my enemy. I want you to go there for me. To the Wolf Worlds. Be my representative at the ceremonies. I can't think of a being they would appreciate more. Can you?"

  "Nossir,” Sten said. And as he said it, he knew he was doomed.

  The Eternal Emperor was right. There was no way he could refuse him this—or the rest that would follow.

  * * * *

  The victory celebrations aboard the Bhor fleet lasted all the way back to the Lupus Cluster.

  Cind kept a close watch on Sten. He joined in all the toasts and the parties and kept up with his hard-drinking friends, Otho and Kilgour. But in repose, his face became a mask, revealing nothing. She knew him better now. She could sense the thoughts churning through his mind—but what those thoughts were, she had no notion.

  Cind saw him jolt up once in the middle of a toast to the Eternal Emperor and look up at the portrait on the ship's banquet compartment wall. He stared at it for a long time, then shook his head and downed his drink. A moment later he was laughing and talking with his friends again.

  But Cind would remember that look for a long time—and wonder what was on Sten's mind.

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  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  MALPERIN AND LOVETT sat in a cell aboard the Emperor's personal yacht, the Normandie. It might have appeared a rather comfortable suite, but the doors were locked and guarded, any conceivable or potential weapons had been removed, and there were sensors monitoring their every breath.

  The fog they had been in when Sten captured them had begun to lift.

  They had been told they were to be tried. The trial would take place on Newton. They would be offered the finest defense counsels in the Empire, and an adequate time to prepare whatever defense they chose.

  Cautiously, mindful of the monitors, the two had begun discussing what they should do, what defense might be offered. They had begun to use circumlocutions as they planned, and, against logic, to whisper.

  There had been six of them once—determined to reach for the highest power of all. And, for a moment, they had held it.

  Now ... forget the deaths and forget the cell. Life is to be lived, Malperin said. Lovett managed a small smile.

  There was a tap outside, and the compartment door opened.

  A man entered. Neither tall nor stocky, he looked to be in good physical shape. He was wearing expensive civilian clothes. He was not an ugly man, not a handsome man.

  "Gentlebeings,” he said softly. “I have been assigned as your escort and aide for the trial. “My name is Venloe."

  * * * *

  Mahoney stormed into the Eternal Emperor's private office, spewing obscenities. He held a fiche in his shaking hand.

  "Lord, Ian. What happened?"

  "Some clottin’ drakh-head on the Normandie! Playing God! ‘Prisoners managed to escape cell. Found way to lifecraft. Attempted to enter. Security officer tried to apprehend, but was forced to...'

  "'Shot while attempting escape!’ Christ! Clottin’ bastard can't even find an original excuse.

  "All that work. Sten will kill that clottin’ moron—but I'll have beaten him to it! Jesus Mary Mother on a gravsled! I'll crucify the clot! Have his guts for a winding sheet.” He broke off. “I do not believe this. Clot!"

  The Emperor picked up the fiche, put it in a viewer, and scanned the decoded message that had been transmitted in the Empire's personal command code.

  He scanned it again, then grunted. “Not good, Ian. Not good at all."

  "Not good ... okay.” Mahoney brought himself under control. “You're the boss. How high do we hang this—whoever did this? Not that it matters. What's the spin for damage control?"

  The Emperor thought a moment. “None. What happened is what happened. And I'll arrange the proper way to deal with our ambitious gunman. But that's all. No investigation, Mahoney. That's an order."

  He paused. “So we've lost our war crimes trial. I don't think it matters. There's too much of the privy council's drakh left around for anybody to be much interested in what happened to Malperin and Lovett."

  "That's it,” Mahoney said incredulously. “Those two just ... vanished?"

  "Something like that. As I said, what happened is what happened. Pour me a drink, Ian. We'll drink their souls to hell, like Sten's hairy friends say."

  Ian stared at the Emperor, then got up and went t
o a table, where he found the decanter of stregg.

  The Eternal Emperor swiveled his chair and looked out the window at the once-blasted site of his palace, Arundel.

  Reconstruction had already begun.

  Mahoney could not see his face.

  The Eternal Emperor smiled.

  * * * *

  THE END

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  THE STEN COOKBOOK

  Actually, this ought to be called “The Eternal Emperor's Cookbook,” because that's who started the whole business. A gourmet from way, way back, the Eternal Emperor cooked up at least one dish for nearly every episode of Sten. When he stopped cooking, of course, is when the drakh hit the clottin’ fan. Over the years, countless readers have written in about the recipes in “The Sten Series.” . One in particular caught our attention. It came from a young Coast Guard Lieutenant, who said that while at sea he always took his turn cooking dinner, even though he was the commander o the ship. He particularly loved cooking the dishes in the Sten novels. He said, “The new guys must have thought the old man mad, to see him hovering over the galley, big spoon in one hand, a greasy science fiction book in the other.” This inspired my wife, Kathryn, (the late Chris Bunch's sister) to sit down and put the recipes together for easy reference.

  So, read, cook, eat and enjoy!

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  Recipe Index

  STEN The Eternal Emperor's Chili

  THE WOLF WORLDS—The Emperor's Salmon

  THE COURT OF A THOUSAND SUNS—The Emperor's Angelo Stew.

  FLEET OF THE DAMNED—The Emperor's Barbecue Sauce

  REVENGE OF THE DAMNED—The Emperor's Nuked Hen

  RETURNED OF THE EMPEROR—Raschid's Eggs of Pattipong

  VORTEX—The Emperor's Bombay Birani

  EMPIRE'S END—Sten's Ultimate Steak Sandwich, Marr and Senn's Dinner Party, Alex Kilgour's Beef Jerky

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  STEN

  The Eternal Emperor's Chili

  The Emperor, Mahoney decided, had finally gone mad. He was hovering over a huge bubbling pot half filled with an evil-looking mixture, muttering to himself.

  "A little of this. A little of that. A little garlic and a little fat. Now, the cumin. Just a touch. Maybe a bit more. No, lots more.” The Emperor finally noticed Mahoney and smiled. “You're just in time,” he said. “Gimme that box."

  Mahoney handed him an elaborately carved wooden box. The Emperor opened it and poured out a handful of long reddish objects. They looked like desiccated alien excrement to Mahoney.

  "Look at these,” he boasted to Mahoney, “Ten years in the biolabs to produce."

  "What are they?"

  "Peppers, you clot. Peppers."

  "Oh, uh, great. Great."

  "Don't you know what that means?"

  Mahoney had to admit he didn't.

  "Chili, man. Chili. You ain't got peppers, you got no chili."

  "That's important, huh?"

  The emperor didn't say another word. Just dumped in the peppers, punched a few buttons on his cooking console, then dipped up a huge spoonful of the mess and offered it to Mahoney. He watched intently as Mahoney tasted. Not ba—then it hit him. His face went on fire, his ears steamed and he choked for breath. The Emperor pounded him on the back, big grin on his face, and then offered him a glass of beer. Mahoney slugged it down. Wheezed.

  "Guess I got it just right,” the Emperor said.

  "You mean you did that on purpose?"

  "Sure. It's supposed to scorch the hair off your butt. Otherwise it wouldn't be chili."

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  THE WOLF WORLDS

  The Emperor's Salmon

  The Emperor was busy dressing the fish. He'd picked a handful of berries from a bush on the outskirts of the clearing and a small clump of leaves from each of two bushes nearby.

  "Juniper berries—they grow wild here; two local spices, basil and thyme, that I planted twenty years ago,” he explained. He rubbed berry juices on both sides of the split salmon, then crushed the leaves and did the same.

  * * * *

  "More fish, Colonel?"

  Mahoney burn-cured a slight case of the hiccups with a shot from their second jar then shook his head.

  After the birchwood fire'd burned down to coals, the Emperor had put the salmon on the sapling grill. He'd left it for a few minutes, then quickly splashed corn liquor on the skin-side and skillfully flipped the slabs of fish over. The fire flared and charred the skin, and then the Emperor had extracted the fish. Mahoney couldn't remember when he'd eaten anything better.

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  THE COURT OF A THOUSAND SUNS

  The Emperor's Angelo Stew

  "What the clot is Angelo stew?"

  "You don't need to know. Wouldn't eat it if you did. Cures cancer ... oh, we cured that before, didn't we ... Anyway ... Angelo stew's the ticket. Only thing I know will unfreeze our buttocks."

  Sten watched as the Emperor worked. From what Sten could gather, the first act of what was to be Angelo stew consisted of thinly sliced chorizo—Mexican hard sausage, the Emperor explained. The sausage and a heaping handful of garlic were sautéed in Thai-pepper-marinated olive oil. Deliciously hot-spiced smells from the pan cut right through the Stregg fumes in Sten's nostrils.

  The Emperor stopped his work and took a sip of Stregg. Smiled to himself, and tipped a small splash in with the chorizo. Then he went back to the task at hand, quartering four or five onions and seeding quarter slices of tomatoes.

  He turned and pulled a half-kilo slab of bleeding red beef from a storage cooler and began chunking it up.

  The Emperor shut off the flame under the sausage and garlic, started another pan going with more spiced oil, and tossed in a little sage, a little savory and thyme, and then palm-rolled some rosemary twigs and dropped those in on top. He stirred the mixture, considered a moment, then heaped in the tomato quarters and glazed them. He shut off the fire and turned back to Sten. He gave the young captain a long, thoughtful look and then began rolling the small chunks of beef into flour first, and then into a bowl of hot-pepper seeds.

  He paused to turn the flame up under the sausage and garlic, then added the pepper-rolled beef as soon as the pan was hot enough. He stirred the beef around, waiting until it got a nice brown crust.

  The Emperor finished the beef. He pulled out a large iron pan and dumped the whole mess into it. He also added the panful of onions and tomatoes. Then he threw in a palmful of superhot red peppers, a glug or three of rough red wine, many glugs of beef stock, a big clump of cilantro, clanked down the lid, and set the flame to high. As soon as it came to a boil, he would turn it down to simmer for a while.

  * * * *

  The stew was done now. The Emperor rose and ladled out two brimming bowlsful. Sten's mouth burst with saliva. He could smell a whole forest of cilantro. His eyes watered as the Emperor set the bowl in front of him. He waited as the man cut two enormous slices of fresh-baked sourdough bread and plunked them down along with a tub of newly churned white butter.

  The Emperor spooned up a large portion of stew.

  "Eat up, son. This stuff is great brain food. First your ears go on fire, then the gray stuff. Last one done's a grand admiral."

  Sten swallowed. The Angelo stew savored his tongue, and gobbled down his throat to his stomach. A small nuclear flame bloomed, and his eyes teared and his nose wept and his ears turned bright red. The Stregg in his bloodstream fled before a horde of red-pepper molecules.

  "Whaddya think?” the Eternal Emperor said.

  "What if you don't have cancer?” Sten gasped.

  "Keep eating, boy. If you don't have it now, you will soon."

  The Emperor's Barbecue Sauce

  The Emperor sniffed his simmering sauce: Mmmmm ... Perfect. It was a concoction whose beginnings were so foul-looking and smelling that Marr and Senn, his Imperial caterers, refused to attend. They took a holiday in some dista
nt place every time he threw a barbecue.

  The original creation was born in a ten-gallon pot. He always made it many days in advance. He said it was to give it time to breathe. Marr and Senn substituted “breed,” but the Emperor ignored that. The ten gallons of base sauce was used sort of like sourdough starter—All he had to do was to keep adding as many ingredients as there were beings to eat it.

  He dipped a crust of hard bread into the sauce and nibbled. It was getting better.

  The secret to the sauce was the scrap meat. It had taken the Emperor years to convince his butchers what he meant by scrap. He did not want slices off the finest fillet. He needed garbage beef, so close to spoiling that the fat was turning yellow and rancid. The fact that he rubbed it well with garlic, rosemary, and salt and pepper did not lessen the smell. “If you're feeling squeamish,” he always told Mahoney, “sniff the garlic on your hands."

  The sauce meat was placed in ugly piles on racks that had been stanchioned over smoky fires—at this stage the recipe wanted little heat, but a great deal of smoke from hardwood chips. The Emperor liked hickory when he could get it. He constantly flipped the piles of meat so that the smoke flavor would penetrate. In this case, the chemistry of the near-spoiled scraps aided him: They were drying and porous and sucking at the air.

  Then he—and his echoing waldoes—dumped the meat into the pot, filled it with water, and set it simmering with cloves of garlic and the following spices: three or more bay leaves, a cupped palm and a half of oregano, and a cupped palm of savory to counteract the bitterness of the oregano.

  Then the sauce had to simmer a minimum of two hours, sometimes three, depending upon the amount of fat in the meat—the more fat, the longer the simmer.

  While he was waiting for the meat to simmer to completion, he could drink many shots of Stregg and prepare the next part of the sauce at his leisure.

  There were many possibilities, but the Emperor liked using ten or more large onions, garlic cloves—always use too much garlic—chili peppers, green peppers, more oregano and savory, and Worcestershire sauce.