The Last Emperox

by John Scalzi

  Jiyi stared at Chenevert for a moment, then sighed and turned into Rachela I, prophet-emperox of the Interdependency.

  “God damn it,” she said.

  * * *

  “When did you know?” Rachela asked Chenevert. The two of them were touring the Green Palace, and Chenevert was showing off his favorite bits of art, or at least the simulations of them.

  “It was when Grayland first met me and called me ‘Your Majesty,’” Chenevert said. “She recognized that apparatus by which I existed. Which meant—and which she confirmed—a similar apparatus existed here. She said it differed because there was no motivating intelligence behind the one she knew, and I didn’t disagree with her. But I didn’t see how that was actually possible.”

  “I don’t see why not,” Rachela said. “Computer programs have been heuristically parsing what people ask since before humans ever left Earth.”

  “Those programs are fine when you want to ask a computer about the weather or to take dictation. It’s another thing when you’re asking the computer to realistically model the emotional state and memories of a whole and entire person. The box inside which that request is made has to feature that capacity itself. There has to be, as the ancestors would have put it, a ghost in the machine. And here you are. Here we are. And here we are at this.” Chenevert motioned to the wall. “Perhaps the finest example of Ponthieu late modern. It’s a Metzger, you know.”

  “I don’t know. I have no context.”

  “Who was the Interdependency’s most celebrated artist half a millennium ago?”

  “That would be Bouvier.”

  “This would be like that.”

  Rachela looked again at the painting. “Okay,” she said.

  “What?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “‘It’s fine.’” Chenevert snorted. “There was once a small land war on Ponthieu over this painting.”

  “A war for a painting.”

  “Yes. Well, it was because of an assassination, and the painting was meant to be part of a restitution package. But then I refused to give it up.”

  Rachela turned to Chenevert. “Really.”

  “In retrospect, not one of my better decisions.”

  “The assassination or not giving up the painting?”

  “Technically I wasn’t responsible for the assassination.”

  “Technically.”

  “You were a ruler. You know how it is. In any event, the skirmish over this painting in itself didn’t result in the collapse of my reign, but looking back it might have been one of the snowflakes that eventually caused the avalanche, as it were.”

  Rachela looked back at the painting. “I would have let it go,” she said.

  “I get the feeling you are not as sentimental as I am,” Chenevert said. “In this as in other things.”

  “No, I don’t think I am.”

  Chenevert changed the subject, slightly, as they walked away from the Metzger. “You know Grayland will be coming to you with questions.”

  “I do now,” Rachela said. “Thank you so much for choosing to inform her about me without my consent.”

  “She deserves to know.”

  “‘Deserve’ is a very debatable concept.”

  “Not in this case,” Chenevert said. “You’ve been presenting yourself as a neutral compendium of information for as long as she’s known of you—for as long as any emperox was using the Memory Room for advice or succor. You’ve misrepresented yourself and your aims.”

  “What do you know about it?” Rachela said. “You don’t know why I’ve done what I’ve done.”

  “You could tell me,” Chenevert said.

  “I think you’ve discovered quite enough of my secrets for one day.”

  Chenevert stopped walking. “She deserves to know because she’s on the verge of losing everything, and you know it. Her reign. Her empire. Her life.”

  “Nothing is settled,” Rachela said.

  “It’s a good thing you’re not pretending to answer me ‘heuristically’ anymore, Your Majesty. Because I can spot an outright lie when I’m told one.”

  Rachela said nothing to this. She turned to look at the latest piece of art.

  “You know all the secrets the Interdependency has,” Chenevert said, taking a step toward Rachela. “You know all the plots and all the players. You’re going to stand there looking at my art and tell me that there is any chance Grayland survives the next few months.”

  “It depends on what she does,” Rachela said. “There’s nothing about these plots that I know that I haven’t shared with her. She knows what I know.”

  “No, she knows what you tell her.”

  “Which is everything about the plots.”

  “But not everything about what you think,” Chenevert said. “Your knowledge. Your experience. Your thousand years of sitting in the head of every other emperox, including hers, to learn what they knew and how they responded to crisis. You set it up so that every emperox who came to you in a crisis had to wade through a bunch of nonsense to get any idea of what they should actually do.”

  “I have my reasons for that.”

  “I’m sure you do. And now you get to tell them to Grayland.”

  Rachela looked at Chenevert sourly. “I don’t think I like you,” she said.

  “This has been a recurring theme in my life,” Chenevert assured her. “But it doesn’t mean I’m wrong. My dear Rachela, do you know what you are? Aside from obviously being a thousand-year-old artificial person.”

  “No, but you’re going to tell me.”

  “Yes I am. You’re a parasite.”

  “Excuse me?” Rachela said.

  “You heard me just fine,” Chenevert said. “Oh, you’re a mostly benign parasite, in that you rest lightly on your host and you even confer what your host would consider a benefit. As parasites go, you’re perfectly nice.”

  “Thanks,” Rachela said, sarcastically.

  “But that doesn’t change your essential nature. You’ve been lurking in the Memory Room for a thousand years now, feeding off the emperoxs who followed you, first when they were living, and then when they were dead. It’s a living, and it’s done well by you. But now things are changing and it’s time for you to be of actual use to your host. Grayland isn’t like the other emperoxs you’ve known, Rachela, because her times are different. She’s the most important emperox since, well, you. Maybe more important than you. She needs your help.”

  “That’s a lot of moral certitude coming from someone who fought an actual war so he wouldn’t have to give up a painting,” Rachela said.

  Chenevert nodded. “I realize I am a flawed messenger. But I’ve also had a few hundred years to consider my flaws and decide how best to make amends for them. You’ve had a thousand years, Rachela. Perhaps it’s time you considered your own flaws. And how to atone for them.”

  Chapter 18

  For five days, from six in the morning to midnight, Kiva parked herself in the mess of the Our Love. From outward appearances, she was doing nothing but drinking tea, eating what passed for food on the ship, and binge-watching the last decade’s worth of The Emperoxs, a popular show that dramatized the lives of historical emperoxs, one season at a time. It was a grand idea because there had been eighty-eight emperoxs so far, so the show had the potential to go on for some time to come.

  Kiva sat there at a table, legs propped up on another chair, headphones in, eyes trained at the screen to watch this season’s emperox engage in sex, blood and deceit, usually amped up from the actual historical record but in at least one season, tastefully underplayed. Kiva was generally ceded her table, but at standard meal times, when the mess got busy, Kiva would drop her feet to the floor and let others sit at her table, giving every indication of ignoring them and their conversation while rapt at fictionalized imperial duplicity.

  In point of fact, Kiva didn’t give a fuck about The Emperoxs. She had a supporting role in the actual life of a real emperox, which was more
than enough drama for one lifetime, thank you very much. The fictionalized versions were fucking tedious at best. But when you’re listening in on other people’s conversations, it makes sense to look busy. The headphones in Kiva’s ears had been silent, even as the show played on her tablet, and while she kept her eyes mostly on her screen, whenever she took a sip of her tea she would look around, keying voices to faces.

  With the exception of Captain Robinette, who took his meals alone, everyone came to the mess sooner or later. The Our Love was either too small for an officers’ mess, or else Robinette didn’t want to bother with the expense. The entire population of the ship had to eat; when they came in, Kiva listened and learned.

  And here is what she learned:

  That crewman Harari was slowly dying of a lung disorder and that standard treatments were doing nothing for him; he’d signed on to the Our Love to fund growing a new set of lungs, but this trip was a loss because there was no cargo to profit-share from, just that stupid passenger. His wages wouldn’t make a dent in the cost, and he was already having trouble breathing.

  That engineer’s mate Bayleyf had overheard Chief Engineer Gibhaan arguing with Captain Robinette about the precarious state of the generator that contained the bubble of spacetime the Our Love surrounded itself with in its trip through the Flow; one instantaneous flicker of that field and all of them would simply stop existing before they even knew they were dead. Gibhaan had warned the captain that it would need to be upgraded along with several other critical engineering functions. Robinette had told Gibhaan to stop being so dramatic.

  That purser Engels had jacked up commissary prices and was skimming the difference, again.

  That Doc Bradshaw was angry that her stateroom had been hijacked, again, by a goddamned passenger.

  (Actually Kiva had already known that. Bradshaw had told her as much the first time they met, as she was going over Kiva’s injuries and then telling her she’d live, and not offering anything other than a basic analgesic. Kiva could sympathize, but she also wasn’t going to sleep on the fucking floor in the cargo hold, so Doc Bradshaw would just have to suck it up.)

  That First Officer Nomiek had reason to believe Robinette was lying to the crew about the profitability of this particular voyage, which was not great because Nomiek had reasons to believe that Robinette had been lying to the crew about the profitability of the last several voyages as well, and that Robinette was in general being pretty shifty—more than the usual amount of shifty that being a freelance trader (read: smuggler) implied.

  That Jeanie and Roulf, the ship’s sex workers, noticed the crew seemed unhappier than usual this trip, which was annoying because that meant the two of them spent relatively more time being ersatz therapists and less time doing what they were paid to do, which was to get the crew off in a competent and efficient manner because they were paid per appointment, not by salary. If Robinette was going to annoy his crew this much, he should pay for a goddamned therapist.

  And so on. In five days Kiva knew everything she needed to know about everyone and everything on the Our Love, and she did it without having to ingratiate herself to anyone, or trying to sneak past their suspicions, or even trying to bang information out of anyone (which she had been known to do in the past but was looking to avoid to do now because she still considered herself to be trying out that monogamy thing, even if she was presumed dead). All it took were headphones and a willingness to look like she gave a shit about scripted entertainment. This was fine by Kiva because by her estimation the Our Love was crewed entirely by fucking asspaddles, the sort of people who became smugglers because no one in the legit world would ever tolerate their shit.

  There was only so far a tablet and a pair of headphones could take Kiva, however. So for the next part, she switched to novels. And then she waited for the right conversation to insert herself into.

  She didn’t have to wait long. On the first day that she was reading a novel—some bullshit alternate history where the Interdependency was still connected to Earth and everyone was fighting a war, or something—crewmen Salo and Himbe came into the mess and parked themselves at the table next to Kiva’s, and proceeded to complain about the penurious nature of their wages and bonuses on this particular journey. Kiva let them rattle the fuck on for a bit, winding themselves up with their mutual tale of woe, before picking the right time to let out an amused snort.

  “Did you say something?” Salo said to Kiva.

  “What? No,” Kiva said. “I’m engrossed in this very stupid book I’m reading. Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

  The two of them went back to their complaining for the amount of time it took Kiva to let out another amused snort.

  “All right, what is it?” Himbe asked.

  “What is what?” Kiva asked, blinking innocently.

  “That’s the second time you snorted when we talked about what we’re making on this voyage.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kiva said. “It’s honestly coincidental. I was just chuckling at something some jackass character said in this novel. Although now that you mention it, I’m a little confused as to why this is such a bad voyage for you.”

  “It’s because we’re not carrying any cargo, just you,” Salo said.

  “I get that part,” Kiva said. “I’m not exactly salable goods, so you don’t get a cut of the trade profit. But that doesn’t mean the ship isn’t making a profit off of me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that the Our Love is running an entire crew to haul my ass to fucking Bremen. No other cargo. That’s an expensive trip. Captain Robinette doesn’t strike me as the sort to be making this voyage out of the kindness of his heart.”

  “Maybe he owes whoever busted your sorry ass a favor,” Himbe said.

  “That’s some favor,” Kiva said, and then went back to her book. Himbe and Salo left, muttering.

  A few hours later an assistant purser by the name of Plemp wandered in, got herself some tea, and then asked if she could sit at Kiva’s table. Kiva, not looking up from her novel, which had somehow gotten worse in the intervening chapters, shrugged. Plemp sat down.

  “I heard you told Salo and Himbe that you knew the ship was turning a profit this run,” she said, after a few minutes of awkwardly sitting there, drinking tea silently.

  “Who?”

  “Salo. Himbe. They said you were talking to them earlier.”

  “I don’t know who I was talking to. I was just reading my book and they started talking to me. A little rude, if you ask me.” Kiva went back to her book. Plemp, abashed, drank some more of her tea.

  “So, is the ship making money off of you?” Plemp asked, when her curiosity could take no more.

  “I have no idea,” Kiva said. “I didn’t say it was. I only said I’d be surprised if the ship wasn’t making a profit off me. Captain Robinette did say he was making more than twice off this trip what he’s made in the last two years.”

  “He said that?”

  “I’m paraphrasing because I was really pissed off at the time and don’t remember the exact word order. But yes.”

  “So we are making a profit,” Plemp said.

  Kiva shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe the profits on the last couple of years truly sucked.”

  That night at evening mess Kiva noticed a hell of a lot of eyes on her. She ignored them and finished her terrible fucking novel.

  The next morning there was knock on her broom closet door. She opened the door a crack and saw Second Mate Wendel, who she knew was particularly close to First Officer Nomiek, both philosophically and in the way that strongly implied they were fucking each other raw.

  “The rumor is you know something about the ship’s finances,” Wendel said.

  “I’m a fucking prisoner,” Kiva said. “I know shit about anything here.”

  Wendel look confused. “That’s not what the ship scuttle is telling me.”

  “‘Scuttle’? First off, that’s not an actual fucking word, now,
is it, and second, your Captain Robinette made it clear to me in no uncertain terms that if I upset ship routine he’d toss me into the fucking void, regardless of whether or not that violated his agreement with Nadashe Nohamapetan about me. So I’m not about to go around planting rumors, and anyone who says I am is trying to get me killed.”

  Wendel ignored that very last part, as Kiva figured he would. “What was that about an agreement with Nadashe Nohamapetan?”

  “I thought you knew,” Kiva said. “I thought everybody knew. Robinette said you all knew why I was on the ship.”

  “We knew we were transporting you,” Wendel said. “We knew you were our sole cargo. We didn’t know why or who ordered it.”

  “Well, you didn’t hear it from me, then. I don’t want to have to pick an airlock.”

  “Relax. I’m not here to rat on you.”

  “I’ll remember you said that when I’m being pushed out into the Flow.”

  “Nadashe Nohamapetan was a passenger on this ship.”

  “So I heard.”

  “She wasn’t exactly popular.”

  “That’s because she’s an asshole,” Kiva said.

  “She is that,” Wendel allowed.

  “And cheap,” Kiva continued. “I’m surprised your captain wasn’t paid for this job up front.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, he got paid a bit,” Kiva said. “He seems happy with what he’s walking away with. Very happy. But supposedly he’s getting another installment on the back end. I say ‘supposedly’ because it’s a bad bet for him.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because Nadashe is fucking broke, that’s why. I would know—I was running her house after that whole family was outed as traitors, and I froze out all her secret accounts. It’s why I’m even alive. She needs me to get that money back.”

  “Then how did she have money for the up-front installment?”

  “Got me, I’m not exactly clued in to her latest scam. But it was probably all the money she had. I suspect when the Our Love gets back into Hub space she’ll do to it what she did with her most recent business associate.”