Planet America s-2

by Mack Maloney

  Hunter and Tomm were already airborne. They followed the rocket ship up, escorting it through the lower stratosphere, all the while keeping an eye on both of the battered siege armies. They could see activity at both devastated army camps, but there was no hostile fire. The ship left unmolested. The space scum had had enough.

  They accompanied the rocket into orbit, Hunter maintaining parallel formation as it finally reached escape velocity and popped into space. He waited while the rocket oriented itself, and then, with the blink of their navigation lights, it streaked off toward its new home, a world some fifty light-years away.

  "They are in the good hands of the Great Klaaz," Pater Tomm said, watching the ancient vessel disappear into the stars. "And will remain as such—"

  "Bingo that," Hunter replied.

  5

  Earth Time

  It was raining again.

  This seemed to happen way too much over Chesterwest, the small patch of inhabited forest just a few miles up the river from Big Bright City, the capital of Imperial Earth.

  Though the climate engineers claimed they controlled the weather over this part of the world — indeed, they supposedly controlled the weather all around the planet — it never seemed to work out that way. Especially over Chesterwest. Why? No one was sure. One theory, and it was an old one, had to do with the forest itself. It was (hick with extremely rare pine trees. No one knew if they grew better with more water or less, so the climate engineers opted for the former. And that's why it was always raining up here. Or so they said.

  The enclave was reserved for dwellings of the most fortunate of the Very Fortunates, those people who weren't quite part of the extended Imperial Family but were damn close. Mostly, these people were rabid social climbers who had made the grade somehow. But there were a few legitimate human beings, including some military heroes, sprinkled among the population here as well.

  There was a series of narrow dirt roads coursing through the forest at Chesterwest, mazelike paths that kept repeating back on themselves in intricate patterns. Few people who lived outside the enclave knew the secret of the roads, a design that ensured even further privacy for the privileged residents. On one of the more serpentine paths, there was a house built just a stone's throw from the top of a cliff, which looked out on the river below. The house was a modest affair, almost rustic when compared to some of the other homes in the area. With an overgrown garden out back and a tangle of wisteria covering the front, the ten-room dwelling was almost completely hidden from view.

  The road running by this house was paved with soft dirt; it became very muddy any time it rained. Now, as the night grew longer, it began raining even harder. The wind had kicked up as well; it was coming right off the cliff, the direction of trouble. Thunder was rumbling again, and lightning was crackling high above the pines.

  It was not a good night to be out.

  Sitting by the light of many candles was the owner of the small cliff house, Petz Calandrx. He was a short, late-middle-aged man, nearly 223 years old. He had long white hair, a recent beard, and a slightly burned leathery face, the signature of a veteran Starfighter pilot. He'd been living in Chesterwest for many, many years.

  Calandrx was an official Hero of the Empire, an accolade given but once a century. He was famous for two reasons. In his first century he was an acclaimed space pilot who took part in dozens of famous campaigns out on the Fringe. Then, returning home after an illustrious career, he won the Earth Race, the most prestigious aerial contest in the Galaxy. That made Calandrx super-duper famous, so much so, that by Imperial decree he was forbidden from ever flying in space again, lest he die in some accident and the Galaxy unnecessarily lose its hero. Calandrx was a victim of his own celebrity, and it killed him a little bit each day. He'd become so famous, he'd been forced to give up the thing he loved the most.

  He spent most of his days reading now. Nearly every room in his house was filled with holographic recreations of what used to be called books. His favorites were rare texts from the Second Empire. Calandrx loved the classic rebel poets of that epoch; he was an authority on the military history of the era as well, what little of it there was. Calandrx had spent much of the last two decades poring over these texts, always by candlelight, looking for clues as to why the Second Empire, supposedly the greatest of the four, fell so quickly. Next to flying, this pursuit had become the passion of his life.

  That's what he was doing this stormy night: reading the middle verses of the classic Second Empire poem, "The Last Battle for the Center of the Galaxy." He'd just completed the two hundred sixteenth stanza when a knock came on his door. It was a strange tapping. Uncertain, yet sharp, as if the person responsible had been dreading this moment for a long time and now that it was happening, some false forcefulness had set in.

  Either that or it was that crazy robot who lived down the road, the one who was always trying to get Calandrx to drink oil with him.

  Calandrx laid the book aside and walked over to the door. He glanced up at the small slit window above its top sill. People who flew in space these days, especially those in vessels powered by the Big Generator, returned to Earth emitting a faint greenish glow. This was the signature of traveling in Supertime. But there was no glow above his door now. Whoever was on the other side had been earthbound for a while.

  Must be someone from the city, Calandrx thought. Or that nutty robot.

  He opened the door to find a man wearing a long, black cape with a floppy black hat pulled down over his eyes. Calandrx could not see the man's face or his hands, usually not a good sign. But his immediate sense was that the man was not holding a gun. Outside, the thunder and lightning storm raged on.

  "Are you lost, my brother?" Calandrx asked him.

  "No, I am not," the man replied. "Though this is just the night for such a thing."

  He lifted his hat a bit. "I come in peace," he said, finally displaying his hands to show he was not holding any weapons.

  Calandrx was nearly two and a quarter centuries old; by now he could tell an honest man at first sight. This man was honest, or at least part of him was.

  "Come in, my brother," Calandrx finally said.

  The man gratefully stepped out of the rain.

  That's when Calandrx took a deep sniff and realized the man was an imperial spy. The smell of water on his cape gave him away. It was an odor Calandrx was familiar with. Back when he was a space fighter pilot, he'd been in countless preattack meetings, and inevitably a spy would pop in, always coming out of the rain somewhere and usually bearing pressing news about the battle soon to commence. All imperial spies wore the same type of cape: thick, black velveeta, by the commonly used ancient word. This material had a very distinct, earthy smell, especially when wet. Therefore, so did the spies.

  "And why is a spook here to see me?" Calandrx asked him; he was known for his direct approach.

  The stranger seemed not surprised that Calandrx had pegged his occupation.

  "I figured an old soldier like you would know who I was— or perhaps more accurately, what 1 was," he said. "The truth is, I am more a messenger than a spook this stormy night."

  "And what message do you bear?"

  The spy took a breath. "You are wanted down in the city— immediately."

  Calandrx's eyes brightened at once. He didn't get down to Big Bright City much anymore. But when he did, it was usually for an occasion that was honoring him in some fashion — a dinner, a testimonial, an awards ceremony. This always meant good food, good wine, plenty of women, and more accolades than he could digest. It was not an unpleasant way to spend an evening.

  But the spy could read his thoughts.

  "This is not another fete for you," he told him frankly. "It does not appear that it will festive at all."

  Calandrx stared back at him. This was a bit worrisome.

  "Who is asking that I appear then? And why?"

  The man shrugged. "A member of the Imperial Family has made the request. That's all I can say.
And as you know, these things can not be refused."

  Flash!

  More than two billion people lived in Big Bright City.

  The imperial capital of the Fourth Empire boasted millions of structures, including many superskyscrapers and spaceports, interlaced with miles of hovering roadways, air-car tubes, people movers, and canals. The sprawling city was so big, it took up nearly 10 percent of the hemisphere's northeast quadrant. Its total power consumption was equal to that of a large planet.

  At ground level, the place was packed with housing units, military barracks, imperial offices, sports clubs, nightclubs, dance clubs, sex clubs, casinos, bars, arenas, weapons shops, and dis-tilleries. There was some kind of flag or banner draped from almost every one of these establishments, proclaiming the greatness of the Fourth Empire. Thousands of monuments to the Emperor could be found all over the city, too, usually jammed in between the enormous, skyward-pointing power towers. And then there were the lights. They were everywhere. All colors, all shades and tones, burning brightly, day or night, creating a garish neon glow that practically guaranteed no one in Big Bright City ever went to sleep. Not that anyone would want to.

  Cruising above the immense metropolis was the floating city known as Special Number One.

  It looked like a huge castle in the sky: high walls, hundreds of ornate buildings, spacious courtyards, a labyrinth of streets and back alleys, it was ten square miles in all. There were multiple spires rising from the clutter of these palatial buildings; each tower glowed with a different iridescent color. Long, sloping passageways crisscrossed these spires like lattice work. In the tallest, there were ornamental zaser beams so bright, they could be seen clear beyond the solar system.

  Special Number One was where the Imperial Family lived. And even though it was past midnight, the floating city was about to get very busy.

  A signal had just been flashed to the small army of security forces stationed on the floating city: the Emperor was on the move; get to your positions. Within seconds, every roof, street, intersection, gate, and tower was lined with heavily armed Imperial troops. So many of these soldiers were materializing from their barracks that the combined shimmer of greenish electricity — always seen during a transport — gave the flying city an unusual emerald glow.

  The alert had been sparked by a very simple thing: a light at the top of the Imperial Palace had switched from white to red. This meant that O'Nay, the Supreme Ruler of the Galaxy, was changing locations. He was considered a god to many, an omnipotent being who reigned over 80 percent of the Milky Way, an empire encompassing billions of star systems and trillions of planets. His realm was so vast and far-flung, no one was really sure just how many people were under his rule. Hundreds of trillions certainly. Probably more.

  As such, O'Nay was much too important to move from one location to another without a great ceremony. These elaborate exercises involved hundreds of additional soldiers, officially known as Holy Palace Guards. Like the security troops around them, these soldiers were at the ready day and night, just in case O'Nay wanted to move.

  As far as anyone could tell, O'Nay spent most of his waking hours at the top of the tower built above the gigantic Imperial Palace. This tower was five hundred feet high and was considered a very sacred place. There was a small room at the top, a very simple affair, as described by the few mere mortals who had seen the inside of it. It lacked even the most basic comforts, reportedly containing but a single wooden chair. It was here that the Emperor would sit for hours on end, gazing out the room's only window, thinking his deep thoughts.

  He did come down occasionally, though, and that's when things could get buzzing on Special Number One. The assembled soldiers watched now as an eerie glow began descending the stairs from the tower. This was the odd greenish yellow haze that always marked the space immediately in front of and immediately behind the Emperor. In centuries past, it would have been called an aura. These days, it was known as the Holy Light.

  It took more than ten minutes for the Emperor and his coterie of special Tower Guards to reach the bottom level of the Imperial Palace. The massive front door finally opened, and. O'Nay was spotted within. At the first sight of him, music started up. Lots of it. The sudden blare of synthesized trumpet sounds, thick with pomp and circumstance, quickly filled the grand concourse. Then hundreds of small, white, mechanical flying things were released into the air. They fluttered across the grand walkway, then turned upward into the night sky, where they quickly disappeared forever.

  A battalion of House Guards formed up in front of O'Nay now. Their helmets and ceremonial weapons gleamed with nearly the same intensity as the zaser beams atop the floating city's tallest spires. Even in Big Bright below, a sort of hush descended, as word was flashed that O'Nay was coming down from his tower.

  As always, O'Nay himself seemed oblivious to all that was happening around him. He looked like a god: tall, sturdy, a full white beard and very long white hair that fell past his shoulders. He was wearing his usual long, flowing, emerald gown and had his gold green miter planted firmly on his head. In the center of this cone-shaped hat was the distorted image of a green three-leafed plant. This was the ancient symbol of the Specials, as the extended imperial family was known. It was one of the few things that had survived the three previous empires and the centuries of Dark Ages in between.

  O'Nay looked out on the grand concourse and slowly raised his hand. The music became louder. It was here that he was turned over to the Concourse Guards, soldiers even more massive than his imposing Tower Guards. Quickly surrounded by four phalanxes containing one hundred soldiers each, the Emperor began crossing the esplanade, gliding along as usual about three feet above the ground, his troops marching in unison on all sides of him.

  Once at the curb, O'Nay was met by another ceremonial army, the Holy Street Guards. With much weapons-slapping and boot clicking, they joined the head of the procession and led it through the empty, pristine streets of Special Number One. They eventually reached the plaza of the nearby Gold House, a building nearly as massive as the palace itself. Here still another contingent of ceremonial troops, the Plaza Guards, joined the ranks. The Emperor floated along with them, maintaining the same detached air as with the other marching units. Gliding across the plaza, he moved very smoothly within his emerald glow.

  The Plaza Guards had the easiest mission of the night. They had to lead the burgeoning parade a mere hundred feet, the distance from the street curb to the front of the Gold House. Here, the Eternal O'Nay would be turned over to the Gold House Guards.

  There was an orgy of lights flashing and saber rattling as this changing of the flags was made. The company of Plaza Guards then turned on their heels and marched off the hundred feet in reverse, stopping only when they reached the curb, where they lined up alongside their comrades and snapped to attention. All eyes were on the Emperor now as he glided not to the massive front door of the Gold House but to a smaller, less ornate one located off to the side. This room was known around the floating city as O'Nay's "favorite comfortable place."

  He went through this door alone, shutting it tightly behind him. The thousands of troops remained at attention and waited. These things never took very long. Sure enough, not thirty seconds later, the door opened, and O'Nay glided out again.

  Mission accomplished.

  Now the whole ceremonial process had to be reversed. O'Nay was surrounded by the Gold House Guards, who turned him over to the Plaza Guards, who gave him over to the Holy Street Guards, who marched him back up to the Imperial Palace, where the Concourse Guards delivered him back to the Tower Guards. Through it all, the music continued to play and more and more white, furry, flying things were sent aloft.

  Only after O'Nay disappeared back into the palace did the pageantry die down. His glow was seen ascending the stairs back to the top of the tower, to the small meditation room, which by all reports did not contain a "favorite comfortable place" for O'Nay. Finally, the glow reached its apex, and the
single light at the top of the tower blinked back to white again.

  That's when the music finally stopped, and any remaining flying things were returned to their holding area. All around the floating city, soldiers and guards were ordered at ease. Things went back to normal as well down in Big Bright City. O'Nay was back in his tower, and all was right with the Universe.

  Back at the Gold House, the two soldiers posted closest to the small room that had been O'Nay's destination eased themselves into standing regular guard duty again.

  After a while, one looked at the other and shrugged.

  "My guess, it was just a tinkle," he said.

  Farther down the floating city's main street, all the way to the bright southern edge of Special Number One, there was an extremely futuristic building known as Blue Rock.

  This was the main operations center for the Space Forces, the largest of the Empire's trinity of military services. The job of the SF was to project the Empire's policies to the far reaches of the Galaxy. Comprised of the Navy, the Army, and Air Service, the Space Forces were the Emperor's front-line troops, nearly twenty billion in all, with millions of spacecraft under flag to get them where they wanted to go. The SF was also the Empire's senior service; its roots went back more than a thousand years, a history that had somehow survived the last two Dark Ages. As such, its members liked to think of it as the most professional of the Empire's military units.

  On this night, the SF building was lit up as always, each of its many levels glowing brightly. A full duty shift was inside, more than fifty thousand people. They were all working nonstop, lording over millions of superfast communications bubbles, the cells from which the reports of the nonstop comings and goings of the vast space service gurgled up.

  At the exact opposite end of Special Number One, hanging off the floating city's northern tip, was another very futuristic building. It was built entirely of black superglass, and unlike the brightness of SF's Blue Rock, it was rarely seen emitting any light at all.