In the Courts of the Crimson Kings

by Stirling, S. M.

  She moved her lips slowly, then surprised him by pronouncing his name nearly as he had.

  “Jeremy Wainman, my subsidiary employer, I profess amiable greetings. May randomness produce positive outcomes for you in this period of endeavor, and malice be absent.”

  Mars, City of Dvor Il-Adazar (Olympus Mons)

  Ringing Depths Reservoir Control

  January 1, 2000 AD

  “What do you see?” Sajir sa-Tomond said to the Terran named Franziskus Binkis. “What amuses you?”

  He had held the shrunken dominions of the Ruby Throne for two hundred Martian years; in Terran terms, he had been born in the year Elizabeth the First was crowned at Westminster. Those centuries of experience and the Crimson Dynasty’s inheritance gave him composure with Binkis, despite the extremely odd way the vas-Terranan and his companion had arrived here in the depths of the City That Is A Mountain.

  On balance, I am content that I did not kill him when I found him in the Shrine.

  Binkis chuckled again. The pumps throbbed in the icy dimness of the great cavern; it had begun as a volcanic bubble, and been shaped to other purposes very long ago. The sound of Binkis’s amusement was lost among the harsh raw power of the sound, and there was a disturbing flicker to his lightly colored eyes. He was six feet tall and lanky for his breed, which made him a little shorter than average and squat to Martian eyes. The Emperor was a foot taller, and mantis-gaunt by comparison.

  “Incongruity,” Franziskus said. “I appreciate the incongruities.”

  His hand moved slightly to indicate the brute angularity of the Earth-made reactor amid the flowing organic machinery that Martians built—or more usually, grew.

  “And yet,” the Terran—

  Who is no longer entirely a Terran, or even entirely a man, Sajir sa-Tomond reminded himself. He has been touched by the things of the Most Ancient, and carried across space and time by them.

  —went on, “I also see in my mind devices that are not machines at all but relations, contiguities of time and space as complex as the dance of neurons in a brain and as abstract as a mathematical theorem. Both these technologies are as crude as a wooden spear hardened in a campfire by comparison.”

  Sajir heard the clearing of a throat behind him. He turned; it was one of the EastBloc diplomats, throughout Lin Yu-Pei.

  He had arrived in conventional wise; by what the vas-Terranan called a nuclear rocket to orbit around Mars, and then by lander dropping on a tail of fire to the field at the Mountain’s foot, where Sajir sa-Tomond had allowed the Eastbloc base to be erected. The diplomat was as diminutive as a De’ming and interestingly different from Binkis in physical type, but Sajir had found him clever enough despite first appearances.

  Though now he is modified. His mind now edits reality and does not perceive Binkis at all.

  And there were the guards in their insectile black armor, drifting like ghosts as they moved to keep the Tollamune, Sajir sa-Tomond the Two Hundredth and Twenty-Fifth, from any risk.

  A little farther back, a knot of officials stood with their hands in their sleeves of robes gorgeous in red and purple, precious metals and jewels like banked embers, but cunningly patched and repaired, great-eyed faces blank beneath round caps worked in filigree. The golden traceries of their headgear were rotten and blackened with age, the emblems of vanished provinces, of services that had once spanned the planet. The air of the great, arched chamber was cold and faintly damp—sopping, to the Martians.

  Sajir sa-Tomond adopted a posture of permission, turning the palms of his hands forward and then back, and the functionaries glided forward, moving in the formal pacing that made their robes seem to slide across the pavement without a hint that legs and feet moved them rather than wheels.

  Lin Yu-Pei was sweating; probably because of the incongruity between what his eyes were seeing and what the script implanted within his brain would let him perceive. But then, Terrans sweated so readily . . .

  And the elderly of the Real World let their minds lose focus. Attention to the present, Sajir sa-Tomond!

  Even with the Tollamune genes and the finest anti-agathics he was old, slimness turned gaunt, raven hair gone white, hawk face deeply seamed with a mesh of wrinkles that moved and interlaced like cracks in spring ice among the northern seas. The bleak golden eyes were hooded and pouched but keen.

  “Yes, the water of the Great Lower Reservoir once more flows to the distribution chambers,” he said. “This is a highly desirable occurrence both in contemplation and accomplishment. Sh’u Maz! Let harmony be sustained!”

  The room echoed with the response to his command: “Sh’u Maz!”

  The ritual was comforting. Sajir sa-Tomond used it to calm himself as he considered:

  My reaction to Binkis is odd. Any of my people who addressed me so would be infected immediately with larvae of the most malignant breed. Yet I do not even resent the fact that I may not order it in his case. There is . . . something else present, with this one. In the legends of the most ancient beginnings . . . and yes, he arrived here in a most extraordinary manner. A fortunate randomness. Through him I may hope to recover the Ancient tembst. And even if I do not, his advice has enabled me to reverse the intent of the Eastbloc Terrans that I be their puppet.

  At his nod, High Minister Chinta sa-Rokis moved in a smooth arc and touched a finger cased in metal fretwork to a spot on one of the great crystal pipes that ran from floor to ceiling like pillars, a spot where a flow-gauge circled the clear tube. Her cap proclaimed her Supervisor of Planetary Water Control; in ancient days, that had been a post second only to the Commander of the Sword of the Dynasty in the planet’s government.

  Currently, it meant managing the municipal works and the stretch of canals immediately adjacent to the Mountain. Unlike most of the High Council, she still had some actual function.

  “Three hundred ska-flow per second,” the monitor said, in a dialect of Demotic so ancient it was almost the High Tongue; it had been a long time since this reservoir was active.

  “Purity is within acceptable limits for all standard use. Flow has been steady for one hour, seven minutes, twenty-two seconds at the—”

  The words stopped and a brief pure tone rang out.

  “A remarkable display of power,” Sajir said. “To raise fluid from such depths.”

  Chinta sa-Rokis hissed slightly; or that might have been the long slender black-furred symbiant coiled around neck and shoulder, whose lips whispered next to her ear. Then the bureaucrat spoke, while the creature stared at the Emperor with what might have been curiosity . . . or a predator judging distance.

  “Yet how long will this”—she made a mangled attempt at pronouncing pebble-bed reactor—“continue to function? A mere five or six decades without more fuel than that store which our allies of the Wet World have supplied; and the machinery itself is not self-reproducing or self-repairing, as our accustomed tembst is. As the one tasked with maintaining the long-term supplies of water, I must”—deferential mode—“caution of the disruption which will arise among those dependent on the additional flow when it ceases in so brief a time.”

  “We have the water now,” Sajir said. “Water to bring life and wealth, to pay Professional Coercives, to overcome irksome limitations.”

  “Even so, Supremacy”—extreme deferential mode, with emphasis on nonironic intent—“problems of management present themselves.”

  “Death presents one with few managerial dilemmas, yet it is generally believed to be less desirable than the wearisome complications of continued existence,” Sajir remarked dryly.

  “I will implement the Tollamune will,” Chinta said, adopting a pose of submissive obedience.

  “This is generally considered a corollary of high office beneath the Tollamune Emperors,” Sajir said, his tone even more pawky. “And we shall, of course, put a program in motion to duplicate the reactor and its fuel.”

  Chinta sa-Rokis blinked in astonishment. Nor was she the only one. Sajir saw some of the ot
hers casting dumfounded glances at each other, and sighed inwardly. The idea might well never have occurred to him if Binkis had not suggested it, along with making the delivery of the reactor and spare fuel pellets a condition of Eastbloc access to Dvor Il-Adazar’s anti-agathics and antivirals.

  Aloud, he continued, “The vaz-Terranan have only had this tembst a matter of fifty or sixty of their years, which are half the length of the Real World’s. Prior to a similar number of our years, they were unaware of even the basic principles upon which this device functions. Surely we, with the principles in our minds, can expect our savants to duplicate the accomplishments of the Wet World?”

  And surely Chinta will not publicly denigrate our capabilities, he thought with satisfaction. In fact, I am not entirely confident. Our savants have merely recirculated known data for a very long time.

  The High Minister was capable, once prodded into action, but no more inclined to act on her own than a sessile-stage canal shrimp was to swim. Usually this was convenient; he could simply set her in motion in a chosen direction and then turn his attention elsewhere while she ran on rails like a cargo cart in a mine. When innovation was required, on the other hand . . .

  And I myself am most unlikely to survive such a period at this point in my probable life span. Odd, to foresee personal extinction from natural causes in so brief a time as a few decades. I must learn to hurry, as if I were once again heedless with youth. This is an inconvenience. So many problems resolve themselves spontaneously with a mere twenty or thirty years of patience. On the other hand, I must keep in mind that death from another’s volition is possible at any point on one’s personal world-line.

  “Such is the Tollamune will!” he stated in the imperative-condescentive tense.

  There was only one possible public response to that. The officials lifted fingertips to their temples, bowed their heads, and chanted in chorus:

  “King Beneath the Mountain! Crimson King, holding and swaying the Real World!”

  They would draw the small sharp knives in their sleeves and slit their throats in ritual Apology if he commanded. But just as the portion of the Real World he in fact commanded was much smaller than theory suggested, so would they still conspire and intrigue with every breath they drew to bend his will to theirs. The more so as he aged toward the ultimate limits and had no immediate heir. That, too, was a situation without precedent, but not one they seemed to find difficult to factor into their calculations.

  No heir save for her. And some of them realize with horror that if my plans succeed, they will have functional duties once more. A balance is required.

  He was tempted to give the order for a mass apology in any case, but their probable successors would be no more reliable, and far more energetic and hungry. Best to keep these for the present. Their underlings had had many years of waiting, which would keep the ministers looking both upward and downward. Younger replacements would be positioned securely enough with their subordinates to look only toward him.

  The most advantageous circumstance of being at the summit is the added velocity of the downward kick; next, the fact that there is nobody above one to do the same.

  “I am glad that Your Supremacy is pleased with our fraternal aid,” Lin Yu-Pei said, eyes flickering as he struggled to follow the conversation in Court Demotic.

  He was rather obviously translating too literally from his native speech; he had been ambassador for only a few years. The attrition rate from incompatible proteins made the implantation risky with vaz-Terranan. The courtiers tensed very slightly, adopting postures of disassociation, implying that they were not present. The guards reacted in a more unambiguous fashion, touching weapons.

  “That is not the most appropriate of phrasing,” Sajir said gently.

  “Your Supremacy?”

  Sajir sa-Tomond fell into the Terran language called Russian; they had a ridiculous number of languages, and used them all simultaneously, but it was an ability he had thought sufficiently useful to cultivate. Communication beyond the basics required more than translation of words; modes of thought and perception embodied in the underlying syntax must be understood.

  “You implied a genetic relationship with myself, the Tollamune,” he explained gently. “This is a serious breach of protocol and may not be done even as a matter of metaphor. Further, you did not use the metaphorical mode.”

  “My apologies, Your Supremacy.”

  “While not forgotten, the offense is allowed to pass without repercussion, due to your ignorance of the Real World’s usages,” Sajir said formally.

  Unnoticed by the Terran diplomat, the Expediter of Painful Transitions lowered the grub-implanter.

  “Concerning the treaty—”

  Binkis giggled and uttered two command code words. Lin jerked and stood stock still. Just below where his spine met his skull something glistened for a moment as it moved.

  “Thank you, Your Supremacy,” Lin continued. “I request permission to return to my quarters. I . . . I have matters to consider.”

  “Permission is granted with formal expressions of amiable goodwill. Let harmony be sustained!”

  Binkis giggled again as the Terran walked away, shaking his head as if bothered by some annoying parasite . . . which, considering the ancestry of the implant, was not too far from the truth. Sajir sa-Tomond gestured in a manner that meant anticipated reaction. As Binkis was possibly possessed by the ancient entities, but was certainly a Terran with limited appreciation of the High Speech, he added aloud:

  “How long before they begin to suspect? Eventually the knowledge that a Terran who did not arrive by spaceship is at my court will reach them. Not all are suitably infected by the neural controller. The high rate of fatalities is an inconvenience; the new model is still prone to prompting severe allergic reactions.”

  “They already suspect something. It will not matter if we can interface your ancestors’ devices fully with the Terran power plant, their numerically driven controllers, and also with their weapons.”

  “Ah, yes, the explosives dependent on deconstruction of nuclei in a feedback cycle and the expanding-combustion-gas propulsive missiles,” Savir said. “I am still somewhat dubious. Reducing territory to toxic dust seems . . . excessive if one wishes to control it.”

  “A few examples will produce submission.”

  “A good point. Force is always more effectively employed as threat than actuality; the greater the raw strength, the more this is so.”

  “And they will give you leverage against the Eastbloc and against Terra as a whole. They were designed to counter possible USASF action; they have that capacity against Eastbloc ships as well. You will effectively dominate space near Mars.”

  “True. There remains the problem of the interface, though. New devices are required. Mere selective breeding, or even enzymatic recombinant splicing of the cellular mechanisms of existing machinery is not sufficient; my savants are definite and unanimous, and my own judgment is the same. The very mathematics are different, and require neural devices of novel types, incorporating the target algorithms. The theory needed to produce such is known; practical implementation of such ceased very long ago.”

  “You have the original cell-mechanism modification devices. The Tollamune genome will activate them.”

  Ah, Sajir thought, he still longs for the repair of his consort, who arrived with him.

  The Terran woman was quite mad; only a form of synthetic hibernation had preserved her life this long. The Ancient-derived devices probably would suffice, if only it were possible to use them.

  He frowned thoughtfully before he spoke. “There is a reason they have not been employed for so very long. They are quite old, they have been used intensively without maintenance, and as a result, they are . . . distressed. My genes are correct; my endurance, however, has diminished to the point where further contact would endanger my life.”

  And that is all you need to know. The true secret, you do not know, nor shall you.

&nbs
p; He turned and left; etiquette did not require anything further for the Emperor, of course. His back still crawled slightly, as if in anticipation of the knife or the needle.

  Yet that is one of my most familiar sensations, he thought. I cannot recall a time beyond infancy when it was not chronic. We have preserved the consensual myth of the absolute authority of the Tollumune Throne for so long, yet was it ever more than literalized metaphor? Not in the opinion of my ancestors, certainly. And most certainly, not since the loss of the Invisible Crown.

  The elevator was a bubble of warmth and color and light after the dank dimness of the pumping chamber. It had been repaired and resurfaced for his visit, and the murals were pleasantly pastoral; they showed small, four-legged creatures with silky fur and overlapping rows of teeth gamboling through reeds beside a lake while the tentacles of predatory invertebrates prepared attack. Idly, he wondered if the place still existed; probably not. The small creatures were extinct save for their preserved genetic data, and so were the invertebrates, except in derived weapon—and execution—forms.

  “Rise to the Imperial Quarters level,” the captain of his bodyguards said, though this shaft was a dedicated one.

  The elevator began to hum quietly as it rose through the Tower of Harmonic Unity. The tune was soothing but a little banal, though it covered the quick panting of the engine as it worked the winch on the traveling chamber’s roof. The ride was water-smooth otherwise; the engine had been replaced with a fresh budding as well, and the rails and wheels greased by lubricant crawler. The smooth efficiency was bitterly pleasant, as if he had fallen back through the ages, as if all Dvor Il-Adazar were so, drawing on the resources of a world. When it stopped, he pressed a hand to a plate that was warm and slightly moist; it pulsed as it tasted him and identified the Imperial genome.

  When the door dilated and he walked through into his sanctum, the present returned on padding feet; murals ever so slightly faded . . .

  One wall was glassine, as clear as ever and at the three-thousand-foot level. It showed the slopes of the western cliffs tumbling away below, carved into tower and dome, bridge and roadway, as far north and south as vision could reach. They had been wrought from living rock, black and tawny and golden, but always framed in the blood red that had given his lineage its name. Beyond stretched the Grand Canal that circled the huge volcanic cone and collected the water its height raked from the sky. On either side of the canal lay the greenish red and blue-green of life, with here and there the soaring white pride of a magnate’s villa.