The Animus Gate (Book One of The Animus Trilogy)

by Thomas M. McNamara

  Figueroa was bouncing the Avalon off the planet’s atmosphere.

  By the time they pulled back out of the gravity well, they were going nearly twice as fast as the ship’s main thrusters were rated for. Which was one and a half times the top speed of those heavy gunners. He watched the scanner with relief as the Avalon pulled away—and out of weapons range. He realized now that Figueroa’s daredevil antics had probably saved their lives.

  And there was no going back to the satellite. That whole sector would be getting swarmed by gunboats soon. The crew of the Avalon was lucky that none were in range to intercept them at the telegate.

  “Message is uploaded,” said Bellamy over the radio. “It’s on the main imperial broadcast channel now. Our caching network will keep it propagating even if they blow this satellite to bits. They’ll have to shut down the whole net to stop the signal. Over.”

  “Solid copy, Davy,” said Figueroa thickly. “I knew you would deliver. Over.”

  Darius opened the Imperial One News feed on his visor. All the gory details were on the stream now. Heads would probably start rolling before the broadcast had even started its first loop.

  “You know me, babe,” said Bellamy. “I could never pass up a good challenge. Nobody knows that more than you.”

  “Copy that, Davy. Davy? Are you there? Davy, this is Figueroa, come back. Baby, do you copy?”

  She tried a few more times. He didn’t answer.

  Figueroa shut off her mic. They flew the rest of the way in silence.

  -16-

  When you first hear someone say “Emperor Ubara Sar-Zin,” a certain image of him may pop into your head. An elderly man in flowing robes, surely. Perhaps in the usual dynastic colors of crimson and gold. You can picture him gliding down the lustrous halls of his palace on a resplendent hoversled, his slippered feet never troubling themselves to walk on mere ground. Maybe you can see him sitting on an elevated throne on the bridge of the Agamemnon as he gazes inscrutably into the starry expanse before him—stroking a long beard with a jewel-encrusted hand. Maybe you would add a garish crown teetering atop his head, or sycophantic nobles milling around beneath him, jostling and jockeying for even a minute of his bored attention.

  But you don’t make it as long as Sar-Zin without defying a few stereotypes. He wore no crown or robe. He was a trim middle-aged man in a simple tailored business suit. His feet were shod in conservative dress shoes, and he was an avid walker. There was no beard to be found, only the famously strong features that had been the muse of sculptors and portrait artists across the centuries.

  Nor were there jewels, a crown, or even a throne. He did not even call for “Your Excellency,” “Your Grace,” or even “my lord.” He preferred “sir” or “Mr. Sar-Zin.” Instead of a throne room, he had boardrooms. Instead of nobility, he had senior executives. Instead of the grim frown of a cruel dictator, he had bright eyes and an easy smile.

  Meanwhile, the fact that his immortality came at the cost of human lives did not bother him any more than your wish for cleanliness in your home requires the occasional swatting of a fly or the trapping of a mouse.

  If things went completely to shit, Sar-Zin figured he had enough purple gel stockpiled around the empire to last himself another century. His inner circle would have to fend for themselves, but...sometimes sacrifices have to be made.

  Today, the secret he had reveled in for centuries was finally out, and his usual morning briefing aboard the Agamemnon had taken on the look of a war room.

  He supposed there were worse briefing rooms to choose from. The entire port side was one panoramic and pristine sheet of transglass hugged by a rounded frame of dark marble. It was about 8 meters long and 3 meters high, tall enough to partially curve into the shape of the massive hull—which he had designed himself. He delightedly embraced its impracticality, especially when the proximity to cold vacuum caused his generals and admirals to fidget their way through a meeting.

  He turned to his chief strategist Betty Lu and flashed his trademark smile. “Betty, my dear, you are looking positively radiant today. What are the latest numbers?”

  “Thank you, sir. We have an eleven-point drop in your polls over the last twenty four hours, and a thirty two-point drop overall since the emergence of this treasonous slander.”

  “And how does this compare to our historical lows?” Sar-Zin liked to use the royal “we” when there was no one else he could have been referring to other than himself. He felt it was a subtle reminder to the group of his constancy.

  Betty cleared her throat. “Ah...sir, these are the lowest numbers that I have been able to find in the archives.”

  “Thank you for the update, Betty.” He looked around the massive table ringed with nearly two-dozen hand-picked specialists, all nearly as sharply dressed as he was. “All right, so we have a unique challenge on our hands. I love unique challenges! I know we can put our heads together and come up with some great solutions. Ken, what has your team been working on?”

  Ken Lippman was the emperor’s chief media consultant. Like everyone else in the room, he was a regular recipient of the purple gel that maintained youth and vitality indefinitely. He was one of the longest-serving members of the staff, and Sar-Zin liked him because Lippman was always careful to dress one step down from his boss. He was a smart player.

  “Sir,” said Lippman, “I think our best bet is to take on these lies directly. We’re past the threshold where silence makes it look as though the accusations are beneath us. I recommend a full-spectrum media blast in response.”

  “I agree, Ken. Please elaborate.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Lippman stood up and began pacing around the table. He wore a navy blue suit that was well-proportioned to his tall, athletic frame. In another age, he may have been a film actor or professional athlete. Sar-Zin believed that it inspired his subjects when they saw him regularly surrounded by handsome people.

  It was not permitted to walk directly behind the emperor, so Lippman walked back and forth beside the window as he spoke. “Sir, my team is putting together a series of talking points for our usual media partners. For example, I’d like to get Alan Kopf on prime-time Imperial One, because he’s good with the more educated demographic. High academic credentials score extremely well with them. He has a whole vocabulary system, actually. His work with syllable metering and word origin is...well, I won’t bore you with the technical details. Suffice to say, he’s our man among the intellectuals.”

  “I like Kopf,” said Sar-Zin. “Tell me about the talking points you’re working on.”

  Lippman folded his hands behind his back and gazed thoughtfully at the stars. “The data my team is crunching points us to three major items, sir. One, the traitors can’t expect your subjects to believe that this openly operated facility was secretly engaging in the alleged activities for nearly a century without no one noticing. So we appeal to your subjects’ belief in the power of their own reasoning skills, and this flatters them.”

  Lippman resumed his pacing. “Two, we point out that the traitors are themselves not immune to criticism. Your followers don’t want to believe that the scurrilous allegations are true, so they will latch onto a piece of information that casts the accuser in a bad light. Importantly, we do not go into too much detail about the traitors’ acts of terrorism. We let your subjects populate their own minds with the details, thus again rewarding them for feeling like they are flexing their own reasoning skills. Kopf would just mention the most recent and most egregious acts, then imply that he’s just mentioning the tip of the iceberg. It’s practically a trademark of his.”

  Sar-Zin thought that was a fine idea. Kopf was excellent at sounding heartbroken about tragic losses of life. He could make you stay up at night wondering what might have been if these poor people hadn’t been cut down in the prime of their lives. The emperor had never quite mastered that trick himself.

  “And the third?” asked Sar-Zin.

  “The third, sir, is to suggest that
the Markosian woman is not only a terrorist, but also disgruntled employee with an agenda. Your most loyal followers are business leaders, or they imagine themselves running their own business one day. Your new Entrepreneurial Spirit scholarship program has had quite a ripple effect. The idea of being masters of their domain is quite alluring. None of that ‘power to the people’ nonsense. So they see in her a threat to their real or aspirational way of life.”

  Sar-Zin nodded sagely. He hated that the Markosian bitch was still in the wind. How he would have liked to personally order her to be dropped into an extraction vat, as slowly as the machine could do it. It wouldn’t be the first time. “Excellent ideas, Ken. Thank you. I want the full sheet on my desk by end of day.”

  Lippman bowed smartly and returned to his seat.

  “Team,” said Sar-Zin, “it makes me so glad to have such capable people in this room. Why, I still remember the first time I met Ken. He was an assistant professor of public policy at New Harvard, but he was still years away from tenure track because the faculty couldn’t wrap their heads around his bold ideas. They bleated about ‘natural rights of life and liberty’ and all that. They insisted that freedom of expression was a cornerstone of society, instead of a way for over-educated malcontents to cast doubt on the system. My system.”

  Sar-Zin leaned back in his expansive chair. “No, Ken laid the groundwork,” he continued. “It was very simple. If you committed a serious enough crime against the empire, it could declare that you were no longer a citizen. I provide you with safety, do I not?”

  It took a moment for the group to realize that it wasn’t a rhetorical question, then there was a murmur of “Yessir!” and “A hundred percent!”

  “I provide education, do I not?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “A hundred percent, sir.”

  Sar-Zin smiled. “Safety, education, sanitation, energy for your homes and business and every vehicle you step into that gets you there and back. I do that. For you. All I ask for in return is a little respect. I don’t think that’s too much to ask. Do you?”

  “No, sir!”

  “Absolutely not, sir!”

  Sar-Zin leaned forward and folded his hands on the table. “That’s what the traitors don’t understand. Do they think they can just replace me instead of showing me the respect that all my other subjects do? Can anyone do that at this point?”

  “No, sir!”

  “Not a chance, sir!”

  He put his palms down on the table. His eyes bored into Ken’s. “I want all that in the memo to Kopf. Every last gods-damned word.”

  Sar-Zin savored the uncomfortable silence that had come over the room. Then he leaned back slowly, and he was all smiles again.

  Never show your fangs for very long, that was the rule. Just flash them every once in a while, to remind people that they were still there, and still sharp.

  “Now,” he said, “I’d like the latest intel on the traitors. It’s my understanding that they are linked to the release of this political stunt. Theresa, would you be so kind?”

  Theresa Cousteau was Sar-Zin’s imperial security advisor and one of his most trusted staff members. With her title, she had to be. Once you accepted that the emperor’s version of trust included a “security detail” that watched your every move under the auspices of protecting you from a terrorist attack, there were worse jobs to have. And the pay was extremely good. Sar-Zin liked efficient spending, but he always paid market rates for skilled labor, and she was one of the best.

  “Yes sir, thank you.” Cousteau tapped on a virtual interface in the table, and several projections popped up over its lavish expanse of solid mahogany. “My team can confirm that the message originates from the insurgents. They probably thought we couldn’t trace it, but we were able to piece together some tags in the data that lead back to the Markosian woman. Since we know that she is colluding with these radicals, the link is clear. Not only that, but the data revealed some geographical information that I don’t think they intended to divulge.”

  “I like the sound of that,” said Sar-Zin. “What did your team find, Theresa?”

  “Sir, there are indications that the video clips were edited together at a specific location—the Pegasus colony ship that the insurgents stole from us about twenty years ago.”

  “None other!” exclaimed Sar-Zin. He clapped his hands together. “That’s a serious theft of my property all by itself. It would be wonderful to take it back from their clutches. My subjects would love to see such an important piece of history back in the safe embrace of the empire. Think of the polls!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Absolutely!”

  “The Pegasus must be the core of their little flotilla,” he added, “assuming they could even get the thing running again. Why, it’s almost as old as I am!”

  Polite laughter echoed around the room.

  “Yes sir,” said Cousteau. “We have in fact located the Pegasus. It’s currently in the Sol system. Several of your active Navy fleets are on standby to enter the area and reclaim your property, on your command.”

  Sar-Zin nodded excitedly. “Make it so. Have Admiral Stillwell sort out the logistics. Tell him that he can take no more than one half of the Navy to Jupiter. Because we have this portal situation to address, and also, we can’t look like bullies. Bad optics, that. Our response must be firm, but dignified.”

  “Naturally, sir. I'll give him the parameters as soon as this meeting is over.”

  “Excellent, Theresa. In fact, I think I should be present at the portal, when we cross over.”

  “Sir?”

  “No one else in the galaxy has accomplished this, my dear. At least, there’s no record of it in any archive that we have access to. It’s history in the making, and I believe it will take this empire to the next level. When we meet with the other Sar-Zin, I think he will see that our power combined will allow us to acquire things that we thought would take another hundred years to claim for the empire.”

  He didn’t expect her to have his vision. After all, she was barely two hundred years old. “Don’t worry about the diplomatic details, my dear.” He smiled. “That’s my area. What's the soonest that Stillwell's contingent can arrive in Sol?”

  “In less than 24 hours, sir, if they push.”

  He clapped his hands together. “You see, ladies and gentlemen? So much excellence in this room. We’re getting so many things done today, and it’s not even lunchtime! I am immensely proud to work with every last one of you. Even you, Steve!”

  The group laughed quietly. Steve looked uncomfortable.

  Sar-Zin gave him his best wink. “I kid, I kid. Steve, you’re a great guy. I don’t care what everybody says about you.”

  The laughter got louder. That joke worked every time.

  “All right,” said Sar-Zin, “speaking of food, I’m absolutely famished. Gang, let’s break this huddle for today and come back tomorrow with some more fresh ideas. Karen, I need to catch up with you on that cure for—what was it, Yacobsen-Muller disease?”

  Karen Adaku was the emperor’s chief science officer. “Yes sir, the cancer that affects girls up to about age 15.”

  “Right, that’s the one. Let’s do a walk-and-talk back to my office and chat about it over a nice brunch. I want to throw everything we have at this. Such a terrible affliction.” Sar-Zin got up and straightened the front of his suit jacket. “Oh, I almost forgot to ask you—would you prefer shellfish or sea bass? Oh to heck with it, I’ll have them cook up both! Come, come, my mouth is already watering.”

  ✽✽✽

  The Agamemnon and roughly half of Sar-Zin’s fleet entered the Oberon system the next day. This was reportedly the location of the trans-dimensional portal.

  Sar-Zin had just finished a brunch of a different kind. As he and his latest concubine got dressed, he went over the rest of the day’s schedule in his head.

  “Tell me, Ubara,” she said, “why is it that you have had so many women over the cen
turies, but never an empress?”

  Sar-Zin sighed inwardly. Nala was new, so some of the usual questions were to be expected. Perhaps he needed to talk to his steward about grooming a few less curious candidates.

  He gazed into the mirror as he donned a dress shirt, and he said to her, “A man who intends to ignore the specter of death has no need of heirs, my sweet. And human nature being what it is, my children would not be content to live eternally in my shadow. I could give them planets, systems, whole sections of the empire, and they still would not remain content forever. So as I have no use for children, I have no use for a wife.”

  “But surely, family isn’t the only threat you face, is it?”

  “Right you are.” Sar-Zin walked around his enormous floating bed and into one of the many closets of his imperial suite. This one was reserved for his suit jackets. He browsed the selection idly. “But those without my blood in their veins will always lack the natural claim of birthright.” He stood before one of his many mirrors and checked his shirt for undesirable creases. “Certainly, a few have claimed to be sired by me. But I went through the necessary surgical procedure to prevent that from being possible a long time ago.”

  Nala came into the doorway of the closet in a black dress, and she bent down gracefully to strap her heels on. They were red and shiny, just the way he liked them. She looked like she was ready for a night on the town. “But...if I may be so bold, Ubara...didn’t you have siblings once? Nieces and nephews?”

  He smiled and picked out a jacket. “I did. Sadly, that part of the family tree did not stand the test of time.” However, they had been useful sources of extraction.

  “Oh...I’m so sorry.” She stood up and smoothed her dress. “Do you ever wish you had a few relatives still around?”

  “Sometimes, sure.” Admittedly, the pleasure of sending them to the vats had been difficult to recapture. But he did sleep better at night, once they had all finally been accounted for. “But families can also be difficult.” He smiled and patted her on the shoulder. “I prefer to choose my friends and enemies. Now, I must see to today’s plan regarding the portal, so...”