The Last Emperox

by John Scalzi

  “What the emperoxs did with that advice was their own affair. Once they were out of the Memory Room I didn’t try to influence or persuade them. Sometimes they took the advice. Sometimes they ignored it. Sometimes they took it and made things worse, either because they were bad emperoxs or because I’m not perfect and gave bad advice. But that indirect path of advising was enough. So, yes, Grayland. I might try to influence you. But you do have free will.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” Grayland said. “It doesn’t feel like it most of the time. Right now it feels like the future is a wall I’m about to run into with no way to stop. I can’t turn, I can’t reverse and I can’t bail out. That’s pretty much the opposite of free will right there.”

  “You haven’t hit the wall yet.”

  “No,” Grayland, agreed. “Not yet.” She stood up and walked over to Rachela’s apparition. “Look. No more lies, all right? No more lies, no more pretending to be Jiyi or every other emperox, no more any of this. If you really are here to help me, then help me. As you.”

  Rachela smiled again, widely, this time. “And how may I help you, my granddaughter, Emperox Grayland II?”

  “You’re aware that Nadashe Nohamapetan is planning another coup against me.”

  “One planned coup among several others, but yes. She’s persistent.”

  “That’s a word for it. You’re also aware of Marce Claremont’s current journey on the Auvergne with Tomas Chenevert.”

  “Yes, although only through what Chenevert tells me. He still won’t let me into his system. He doesn’t trust me.”

  “That seems fair.”

  “I disagree, but I understand why you say it.”

  “I thought he gave you some information about his systems as a gift.”

  “He told you that, did he? Yes. I’m looking at it as we speak. I can do that, you know. Do two things at once. Actually several thousand things at once.”

  “How different is he from you?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m curious, is all.”

  “His system architecture is incredibly different, which is to be expected because our civilizations haven’t communicated in fifteen hundred years. But the function is similar enough, and some things are an improvement. I’ll be looking to see what I can incorporate into my own being.”

  “You can do that?”

  “I’ve been doing it for a thousand years. The Memory Room isn’t running ancient technology. It’s built to last for centuries, if it came to that. But since it hasn’t come to that, I keep improving it.”

  “It could come to that very soon,” Grayland said.

  “Unless your fiancé pulls a miracle out of the air, yes.”

  Grayland blushed, and then felt embarrassed. She touched the small bump on the back of her neck that was the only outside evidence of the neural network in her head, recording her emotions and memories to be stored in this very room. “Of course you knew,” she said finally.

  “Of course I did. I’m happy for you. You do deserve some bit of joy in your life.”

  Grayland nodded at this, grimaced, sat down on the bench again and burst into tears.

  Rachela waited until Grayland was done. “If you want to tell me what that was about, I’m listening,” she said.

  Grayland smiled ruefully at this, wiped tears away and shook her head. “You’ll know soon enough.”

  “That’s true,” Rachela said.

  “Is it worth it?” Grayland asked. “Living forever, I mean.”

  “It’s not been forever; it’s just been a long time. And yes, it’s worth it. If you get to be useful.”

  “Okay, good.” Grayland stood again. “Then it’s time for you to be useful to me.”

  “Tell me how,” Rachela said.

  Grayland looked around the Memory Room. “First, I think you need to get used to the idea of a life outside of this box.”

  * * *

  Grayland spent some part of every day of the next week in the Memory Room, communing with her ancestress, learning about her, and learning with her, and making plans for what was coming next. She also tended to state business, wrote out decrees and planned for upcoming events, as she would as emperox.

  Every night before she went to bed, Grayland texted with Marce via her tablet, catching him up on her day and getting caught up with his. Their communication was hampered by the speed-of-light delay, which stretched to minutes on each end, but the wait was worth it. On the day that Marce saw his emergent stream, he sent only “Soooo much data. Love you.” Grayland who was also Cardenia told him she loved him back.

  The next day Grayland met with Commander Wen, who had an update on the Ikoyi task force: enough ships had been found and were currently en route to the Ikoyi system, where they would deploy two days before the Ikoyi Flow stream into End became untenable. In the meantime, more ships and personnel would be added to the task force as necessary. Even better, Countess Huma Lagos had promised logistical and materiel support of the task force within the Ikoyi system, which was a great relief to everyone involved. Grayland reminded Wen that arrangements were to be made for the eventual transfer of families of the personnel involved in the task force. Wen assured her that those arrangements were already underway.

  Grayland’s meeting with Commander Wen was followed immediately by a brief tea with Archbishop Korbijn, which Grayland enjoyed so much that she allowed it to run on an additional five minutes beyond its allotted fifteen. As they departed, Grayland impulsively gave Korbijn a hug, and then apologized to the archbishop for the impertinence. Archbishop Korbijn reminded Grayland that she was in fact the head of the Church of the Interdependency, and as such might be permitted to give a friendly hug to an archbishop from time to time.

  The appointment Grayland had been made late to was with Countess Rafellya Maisen-Persaud, who was waiting for the emperox in one of the smaller formal rooms of Grayland’s wing of the palace. Grayland apologized to the countess for her lateness, and the countess graciously accepted and in turn offered the emperox a small token: a music box from Lokono, which, when wound, would tinkle out several bars of a tune by Zay Equan, the most famous Lokonan composer of the last century. Grayland took the music box with appropriate thanks, sat it on her desk and asked the countess how her dog was. The countess, puzzled, replied that her dog was fine.

  Grayland and Countess Rafellya Maisen-Persaud continued with pleasantries for several more minutes and had only begun to get to the substantive meat of their discussion, regarding the current potential for an evacuation of the Lokono system, when the music box, despite being carefully scanned and examined by imperial security, exploded violently and with deadly force, sending shrapnel across the confines of the small room and killing both the countess and the emperox instantly.

  BOOK THREE

  Chapter 20

  With the assassination of Emperox Grayland II, the Interdependency entered an official period of mourning. The executive committee, citing the shocking and tragic nature of her death, extended the traditional five-day mourning period to a full week. The week went into effect immediately within the Hub system, and would be in effect in all other systems on the receipt of the declaration of her death.

  The executive committee, with Archbishop Korbijn at its head, also announced the formal investigation into the particulars of the assassination. All evidence pointed to Countess Rafellya Maisen-Persaud acting alone; a suicide note had been found in her apartments, detailing how she had managed the assassination and why—the latter, evidently, to protest the emperox’s inaction on the matter of evacuating the Lokono system. The letter drew a parallel between the countess’s act and the act of Gunnar Olafsen, who had assassinated the first Emperox Grayland in protest of what he saw as inaction on the isolation of Dalasýsla, which occurred in her reign.

  But of course the executive committee could not simply accept that one, too-obvious answer without making a full inquiry. Grayland II’s short reign had been marked by repeated
assassination attempts and efforts at her removal, labyrinthine plans that had engaged the entire noble and professional classes of the Interdependency. There had to be at least an effort at digging deeper, to see if there was more here than the obvious disgruntled countess.

  As for Grayland II herself, the (closed) casket bearing her remains would be displayed in state at the imperial palace for the first three days of the official mourning period, and then for another three days at Brighton, at Hubfall, for the public to view and remember her. At the end of the mourning period, she would, in accordance to tradition, be cremated and her remains interred in the imperial crypt on Xi’an, where she would rest with her ancestors for eternity.

  With those matters settled, the executive committee turned its attention to the next and far more thorny problem: Who was to be the next emperox of the Interdependency.

  It was a thornier problem than usual. The emperox had died without either producing or naming a successor, meaning there was no official heir to the throne. This had happened only six times before in the history of the Interdependency. It was not unheard-of, but it was rare.

  History offered some guidance here. Whether the emperox had named a successor or not, the throne of the emperox was assumed to be the property of the House of Wu. This was by tradition, of course, but there was a strong, if unwritten, legal argument for it as well. The majority of the emperox’s lesser titles, including that of Regent of Hub and Associated Nations, were explicitly tied to the Wu lineage, and Xi’an, while technically the territory of the imperial house, resided in the Hub system, which was owned and at least in theory administered by the Wu family. It would be difficult to place someone not a Wu onto the throne.

  The previous six times in which there had been no official heir to throne, the throne had first been offered to whichever Wu cousin was the managing director of the House of Wu. If the managing director either refused the crown (which had happened three times) or was judged not competent (once), the board of directors of the House of Wu was then offered the task of choosing a Wu family member to ascend to the throne. Each time in this case the board chose one of its own members.

  In the case of the current concern, naming the managing director would not be possible; the most recent managing director, Deran Wu, was dead, and the managing director previous to him, Jasin Wu, had attempted a coup against Grayland II and was currently sitting in a cell awaiting trial. No other Wu had stepped into the managing director position since Deran’s untimely death—Proster Wu had been acting as de facto managing director for the family but had not officially taken the title, and neither he nor the rest of the board seemed to be in a rush to put someone in the seat. Nor did it appear that Proster Wu had any interest in becoming emperox himself, even if he were the official managing director.

  All of that being the case—and having been fully briefed by both historians and the imperial minister of justice—Archbishop Korbijn, acting for the executive committee as its director, and with their signatures and seals affixed to attest to their consent, formally invited the board of directors of the House of Wu to select the next emperox.

  Almost immediately came the request by Proster Wu to meet with the archbishop. The board, which had anticipated the invitation, had made its choice, and Proster wished to explain it to Korbijn in person.

  “My condolences on your loss,” Korbijn said to Proster, when he visited her a day later, in her spacious offices within the imperial cathedral on Xi’an. She motioned for him to sit once their assistants were dismissed and they were by themselves.

  “Thank you,” Proster said. “I never met my cousin other than formally and ceremonially, but it came as a shock to all of us.”

  “And to me.”

  “I understand that you were, in fact, quite close to her,” Proster said.

  “I was,” Korbijn said. “She was lovely, and I don’t mean that lightly. She hadn’t wanted the role of emperox, but she grew into it. And she let me help her grow into it. I’ll be forever grateful for that. I will miss her.”

  “Then my condolences to you, Archbishop.”

  “Thank you, Director Wu.”

  “Please, call me Proster.”

  “If you wish.” Archbishop Korbijn smiled and cleared the reverie of Grayland from her head. “Now, then. We are not here to talk of the past, but of the future.”

  “Yes.”

  “The Wus have chosen our next emperox.”

  “We have.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Well,” Proster said, and reached down for the document bag he was carrying. “That takes a bit of explanation.”

  Korbijn frowned. “Why is that?”

  “You’ll see.” Proster reached into the document bag, pulled out an impressive stack of papers, and placed them on the archbishop’s desk. “Before I tell you, here are endorsements from most of the noble houses, major and minor, regarding our selection. You may peruse these at your leisure and have your legal people confirm they are legitimate.”

  “Most houses?”

  “There were a few holdouts,” Proster said. “The House of Lagos, which is not a surprise, given how contrary they are. The House of Persaud, because its local director assassinated the former emperox, and they rather correctly determined that their best option at the moment is to lie low and not do anything. A few others, of relatively little importance in the large scheme of things.” He tapped the pile. “But this represents the vast bulk of the houses. The majority of the Interdependent nobility.”

  Korbijn looked at the pile. “For you to have this many endorsements for your choice, you must have had some idea of this successor for a while now.”

  “No, of course not. But when it became clear there would need to be a successor, one was the obvious choice to the board, and when we contacted other houses, it was an obvious choice to them as well.”

  “After this lead-up, I can’t wait to hear which Wu this is.”

  “Well, that’s just it, Archbishop. It’s not a Wu.”

  Korbijn wrinkled her forehead at this.

  “What?”

  “It’s Nadashe Nohamapetan.”

  Korbijn gaped openly. “You are out of your goddamned mind,” she said, when she recovered.

  Proster Wu seemed surprised an archbishop would use a profanity, and particularly that profanity, but recovered quickly and shook his head. “There are very good reasons.”

  “She tried to kill the emperox! Twice! She murdered her own brother! She participated in her mother’s coup!”

  “There’s context for all of that.”

  “Context!”

  “Yes,” Proster pressed on. “I’m not going to pretend to you that Nadashe was not engaged in these events. But the context was, and is, her family, and ours. Grayland’s father Attavio VI made, on behalf of the imperial house, a compact with the House of Nohamapetan to have a Nohamapetan as the imperial consort and to bear a child of the two families, to be the heir of his own heir. Then Rennered died—”

  “—because the Countess Nohamapetan had him murdered—”

  “—in circumstances that Nadashe was not involved in nor had foreknowledge of, and Cardenia became heir. The presumption by both families was that the agreement between the houses was still in force. But Cardenia broke that agreement, and the House of Nohamapetan was left without recourse.”

  “And that somehow excuses attempted murders and coups,” Korbijn said.

  “Of course not,” Proster said. “It is, however, relevant to note that this agreement between the Nohamapetans and the imperial house wasn’t merely about business. It was about dynasties and the rule of the Interdependency. Nothing excuses the actions of the House of Nohamapetan in the aftermath of Cardenia’s choice not to honor the agreement between their houses. But there is context. And in that context, Cardenia wronged the House of Nohamapetan. Not in the same degree, or kind. But certainly enough.”

  “You can’t possibly believe what you’re telling me.”

/>   “I can, actually,” Proster said. “Also, I believe that the last thing the Interdependency needs at this moment, when literally everything is falling apart, is a civil war with the imperial house on one side and the Nohamapetans on the other. That’s what we’ve had over the last few years, and you know it. It’s what’s gotten us to where we are today. We should be focused on saving the Interdependency from collapse. Instead we’re playing palace intrigues. It’s pointless. It’s wasteful. And it’s going to end in our ruin. The ruin of all of us. You know this. I know this.” Proster motioned to the pile of documents. “And they know it too.”

  Korbijn said nothing to this.

  Proster leaned forward in his chair. “Look. The Wus put Nadashe Nohamapetan on the throne as emperox. Just as emperox, with very proscribed powers and responsibilities that she’s already agreed to. She marries a Wu—she’s already looking through the ranks to find a suitable match—and then whoever she picks takes all the lesser titles of nobility: King of Hub and so on. Their child, who will take the Wu name, inherits everything, and we’re back to where we were before in terms of succession and dynasty. Back to what both the imperial house and the House of Nohamapetan agreed to under Attavio VI. Everyone now squaring off to fight a civil war backs down. We focus on saving the Interdependency. We save as many lives as we can.”

  “Even if it rewards a murderer and a traitor.”

  Proster spread his hands wide. “These are the times we live in, Archbishop.”

  “We make the times we live in, Proster.”

  “Sometimes. But we didn’t make a time in which the Flow is collapsing. That was something we had thrust on us, I’m afraid.” He shrugged. “And anyway, if we don’t put Nadashe on the throne, what time are we making there? Do you think she or her allies will stop doing what they’re doing? How many Wus would you like my family to paint a target on? I’m not keen on making any more of my cousins a sacrifice to the gods of war.”